


building empires

by dawnstruck



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Auguste Lives, Auguste is precious, Damen reads poetry, Hurt/Comfort, Laurent writes poetry, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Veretian Scheming, mentions of attempted non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-09-02 00:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8643499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: “Marriage,” Prince Auguste bursts out and everyone stares.“A marriage between our royal families,” he clarifies, visibly clearing his throat and his head before he continues, “To symbolize the pact between our kingdoms, for generations to come. Not foes, not friends, but family.”





	1. i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After an intially rocky start, I fell hard and fast for the Captive Prince trilogy and Damen and Laurent being in love. I also fell in love with how fandom had a thing for the Auguste Lives trope, but I couldn't help but notice that there is a distinct lack of Arrange Marriage AUs. So this is my attempt to remedy this.  
> 

[“ _Pollution is all around me_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wpDQeVKEq_Y)  
[ _All around me_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wpDQeVKEq_Y)  
[ _Our solution_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wpDQeVKEq_Y)  
[ _Lies there in clear air”_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wpDQeVKEq_Y)

Clear Air by Svedaliza

* * *

 

 

i.

It takes Damianos quite some willpower to keep the disappointment off his face.

He is certain he could have bested the Veretian prince, not quickly, not easily, but bested nonetheless. He could have won the match and the battle and the war for them, all in one, and he would have returned home a hero, would have had songs written about him till he was more myth than man.

Instead, however, Vere had called for a parlay, calling a hold to all the fighting.

Damianos is better with the sword than with words. He feels ill at ease facing their definite enemies as potential friends, and he had assumed his father, world-wise and battle-born, would reject the offer outright.

“There is much you have yet to learn about ruling,” King Theomedes had told him instead, “A conquest doubtlessly brings glory and bounty to the victors, but peaceful coexistence can have its merits as well.”

So Damianos had conceded and kept his mouth shut. For now. He'd listen to what the treacherous Veretians had to say and then he would aptly judge them.

They arrive with their entire royal family, the king and his brother and both princes, a sign of trust. Despite Damianos' expectations, they look like all other soldiers. Their armor is more expensive and elaborate than a common man's, not too mention needlessly stifling by Akielon standards, but they wear all the signs that they, too, have participated in the battle, covered in blood and filth, fatigue in the lines of their faces.

Only the youngest prince, too young to have been let anywhere near the actual fighting, looks out of place among the proven warriors. He is dressed in a velvet doublet, deep blue with silver like stars stitched alongside polished buttons. His hair is windswept and his boots caked with mud, but other than that he is like a forest sprite between shadows, almost unreal and as though he might disappear within the blink of an eye.

Yet like his elders, he keeps himself calm and composed, his lashes lowered but watching everything around him with an attentive gaze.

Sly as a snake, even at that age, Damianos thinks and purses his lips.

“King Theomedes,” King Aleron greets and inclines his head.

“King Aleron,” King Theomedes says and does the same.

The meeting takes place in a tent between the front lines, as though they do not have frothing armies at their backs, ready to be sicced at the other at a moment's notice.

“My sons Auguste and Laurent,” Aleron introduces the man and the boy at his right, before gesturing toward his left, “And my brother.”

“My heir Damianos,” Theomedes beckons and Damen takes a small step forward.

As a bastard, Kastor had been asked to remain outside. To the Veretians, his presence would have seemed more like an insult than anything else.

They all acknowledge each other as respectfully as can be expected of men who were moments away from trying to kill each other with all their might. The air is tense between them. Theomedes lifts a hand, giving Aleron a questioning look.

“Now then,” he prompts, “Since you were the one to invite us here, I believe you should be the one to open the floor.”

“Of course,” Aleron allows, yet he merely gestures towards his heir, “But it was Auguste who tried to sway me first. He should try his luck with you as well.”

Theomedes frowns, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Auguste steps forward, obviously well aware of the weight that rests upon his shoulders. Yet there is no hesitance in his stance, even though he must know how unprecedented this scenario is.

“It is I that requested a parlay,” he explains.

Coward, Damen thinks.

“Interesting,” Theomedes says. He does not seem convinced. Good.

“I trust my son's judgment,” Aleron asserts calmly, “And I'd rather risk the follies of youth than the stubbornness of age.”

“Well said,” Theomedes agrees, “So, Prince of Vere. What would you have us speak about?”

Auguste takes a moment to gather himself, breathe and close his eyes. When he opens them again they are clear and blue.

“I propose a treaty,” he says, “Between Akielos and Vere.”

“A treaty,” Theomedes chuckles, but there is little amusement in his voice, “One that will be ignored? That will encourage backstabbing instead of honorable fights? You skirt away from battle but welcome intrigue, it seems.”

Typical of the Veretians, Damen thinks but schools his features.

“We would honor it,” Auguste implores, “Think of how peace would benefit all of us. New trading routes – and direct trading, too. I hear you favor Veretian wine, Exalted. You could have it directly imported instead of waiting for it to take the detour over greedy Patran merchants.”

So you can poison that same wine intended for him, Damen wonders. He cannot figure out whether the Veretians are truly hoping to establish a treaty or whether this is just a poor attempt to postpone a war and come up with a different scheme later on.

“Words on paper,” Theomedes growls lowly, “What good has it done in the past? Our forefathers have failed to keep the peace, so how should we?”

“Marriage,” Prince Auguste bursts out and everyone stares. He himself looks vaguely surprised as well, as though the words had come out of his mouth of their own volition.

“A marriage between our royal families,” he clarifies anyway, visibly clearing his throat and his head before he continues, “To symbolize the pact between our kingdoms, for generations to come. Not foes, not friends, but family.”

“I have no daughters to offer you,” Theomedes points out, casting a sideways glance at Aleron, “And neither do you, I believe.”

“And a marriage between a prince and a daughter from a noble family would hold significantly less value,” Aleron's brother notes mildly.

Auguste opens his mouth, but for a moment no word comes out. Then he seems to give himself a push.

“My brother is almost of age.”

Everyone stiffens. It is quite obvious that no one had expected this turn of events, that Prince Auguste had come up with this harebrained plan all of his own – and the rest of his family does not appear too enthused about it.

King Aleron gives an uncomfortable laugh.

“Be reasonable, Auguste,” he says, “Laurent has barely seen fourteen winters.”

He looks younger than that, though, slight and fair as he is. In Akielos, most youths would already proudly sport some meager facial hair. Prince Laurent is pretty as a girl still.

Right now, however, he is white as a sheet, his hands clenched behind his rigid back. What must it feel like to be sold out by your older brother, bartered off like a goat at the market place?

“An engagement, then,” Auguste insists, “To show our goodwill until it is time.”

“Auguste,” his uncle says, “You would entrust your brother to... strangers?”

Barbarians, he obviously means to say but has better sense than to actually do so.

“It seems,” Theomedes notes in deliberation, “That you have not quite thought this proposal through yourself.”

Auguste has the audacity to look somewhat sheepish. Aleron, however, feels the pressure.

“In itself, I am not disinclined to approve my son's idea,” he says slowly, “But I believe that we should work on the details together. For that, though, I would hear your stance on the matter first.”

For a moment, Theomedes looks thoughtful. Then he turns his dark eyes on his son.

For the first time, it occurs to Damianos that he would be the other counterpart of this political deal. The idea does not sit well with him.

“He's little more than a child, father,” Damen protests, making a sweeping gesture towards the younger prince. Laurent bristles but Auguste, by his side, looks strangely relieved.

“But light of skin and hair,” Theomedes points out and cocks an eyebrow because he does know his son after all.

“No heirs would be born of this union,” Damen adds, “What good would it-”

“Symbolism,” Augusts reiterates, not even noticing that he has rather rudely interrupted him, “Vere allows for weddings between men, and Akielos allows for bastards to become kings. You could keep mistresses and have as many heirs as you wished for.”

“Have you no shame?” Damen asks. He cannot fathom that this allegedly beloved crown prince of Vere would so eagerly try and offer his younger brother to a man whom he believed to be little more than a savage.

“I mean no offense,” Auguste replies, more carefully, “I have only our kingdoms' best interests in mind.”

“But not that of your pawns, it seems,” Damen huffs, squaring his shoulders, “I cannot bind myself to someone whom I have just met.”

“Laurent could accompany you to Ios,” Auguste says, “Spend the year there, getting to know you and your culture.”

Something is fishy about this. Not about Auguste himself, but about his eagerness to seal this potential engagement. Is he planning for Laurent to poison the Akielon king and prince when then think themselves safe from deceit? But no, there seems to be more to it than that.

Yet Damen stills his tongue, unwilling to sour the overall tolerant mood of the parlay.

“He's just a boy,” Aleron's brother says, “And you would have him far from home for so long?”

“Hmm,” Aleron hums, “It does appear like a bit much.”

“Damianos could come to Arles perhaps,” Theomedes says, “For the remainder of the summer.”

Damen turns to his father with a betrayed expression.

“You've made up your mind then?” he asks, “I am to marry the enemy?”

“A trial run,” Theomedes harrumphs, “A season to get to know the people and your prospective spouse. See whether you can learn to trust them and whether you would let one of them rule by your side.”

If they went through with this marriage, Damen realizes, there would eventually be two Veretian monarchs reigning. A chilling thought indeed.

You had been ready to wage a war against them, Damen thinks frantically, and now you would let them into your palace and into my bed?

“You still have the option to change your mind later on,” Auguste reminds him, “This is merely... testing the water.”

I'd rather drown, Damen wants to say but catches himself. When he glances over to the far right, Laurent is studiously glaring at the ground. He's the only one who hasn't said a word so far. The only one who's not being asked for his opinion. All in all, Damen is probably better off.

“Very well,” he says, though he cannot resist the urge to petulantly cross his arms in front of his already armored chest, “I consent – for now. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“That is all we ask for,” Aleron says. His brother doesn't say anything, his eyes lowered in a thoughtful, almost demure fashion.

“Come then,” Theomedes genially waves them closer, already reaching for the paper that has been laid out, “Let us further discuss the details of the contract.”

They spend the next hours outlining agreements for trade, territory, taxation. Damianos remains by his father's side, refraining from glaring at the royals across the table.

When the ink is dry, the contract neatly written up in both Akielon and Veretian, Damen finds himself forced to put his name underneath. Scratching the letters onto the parchment takes but a moment, yet he knows he sells part of his future away in the process.

The contract is turned over to Prince Laurent. The boy is still pale, his lips bloodless, the quill clenched between his fingers.

“Laurent,” Auguste urges gently.

Laurent blows out a breath through his nose, spells his name with more flourish than necessary, and consents to becoming the Akielon queen.

After all, there is no word for prince consort in their language. There is one for hostage, though. Damen is not sure which one would be more fitting.

 

ii

Damianos of Akielos arrives in Vere via ship and with a small entourage to accompany him. It's both a safety measure and a means to impress the Veretian court. More than half of his people will leave again after the first three weeks. For now, though, Damen is grateful for their presence. Especially since he has his best friend since childhood by his side.

“We can still turn around,” Nikandros whispers conspiratorially and Damen cannot help but grin.

“They are already mooring the ship, Nikandros,” he points out but his friend only shrugs.

“Our blades are sharp,” he says, casually putting a hand to the hilt of his sword. On the surface it's a joke about cutting through the ship's ropes before they anchor at the port of Arles, but underneath that lies a threat and a promise. Nikandros would not shy away from protecting his prince, if need be.

And according to many, there would be need. The news of the sudden treaty had not been received kindly. The Akielons were a people that looked for glory in battle, whether through death or victory. Paper politics were not suited to their fiery tempers.

But Damen had given his father his word that he would set a good example and inspire his men to follow the course they had chosen. Damen still does not like it but he has had time to better hide his discontent.

After the contract had been signed and the armies called back, both royal families had returned to their respective courts. Damen had been given short precious weeks to settle all his affairs and gather all he needed to take with him, before boarding the ship that had now taken them here.

“It's only for the summer,” he reminds both himself and Nikandros. That's all he had agreed to, after all. A trial run. After that, he would be allowed to change his mind. They could go to war then or keep the peace. In any case, he would be able to rid himself of this strange promise regarding his nuptials. It wasn't even a proper betrothal. Instead, he and Laurent were betrothed to be engaged. There was nothing real about it but words on paper.

Paper can burn, Damen thinks, much like cities.

Arles itself, however, is an impressive sight, the castle stunning against the blue backdrop of the sky, the color all the more enhanced by how it is reflected on the calm sea today.

Damen wants storm clouds to suit his mood, but all he gets is sunshine and smiles.

Or one smile, at least, when he makes his way off the ship and is warmly greeted by Prince Auguste.

“Prince Damianos,” he says in slightly mangled Akielon, spreading his arms in a universal gesture of welcome, “It is good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Damen says, forcing a smile onto his own features, “I cannot imagine a more joyous occasion under which I might have first stepped foot into Arles.”

Conquest, his mind supplies unhelpfully, but instead he turns towards Laurent who is, once more, standing by his brother's side.

“Prince Laurent,” he greets, “It is a pleasure to meet you again.”

“You have very low standards for pleasure then,” Laurent says in pointed Veretian and for a moment Damianos is caught off guard.

“Laurent,” Auguste chides, looking somewhat scandalized. Laurent takes a deep breath.

“I welcome you to my birthplace, Heir of Theomedes,” he says, very formally. It sounds rehearsed, but it's difficult to tell whether that it because he does not actually speak Akielon or because the phrase completely lacks sentiment when coming out of his mouth.

“Forgive my brother,” Auguste sends Damen another quick smile, tentative around its edges, “He is nervous about properly meeting his fiancé.”

He is a brat too young to understand proper decorum, Damen thinks and the glare Laurent sends the both of them is yet another reminder of Damen having promised his hand to a spoiled child.

“As am I,” Damen claims agreeably because he cannot afford to start off on the wrong foot, “I have never been this far from home and for so long, too.”

“Oh?” Auguste says in surprise, “I heard you had traveled to Vask before?”

“Only the mountain range,” Damen supplies, “Just behind the border.”

“Close enough to Vere then,” Auguste claims, “Though I'm afraid you will find Arles much different from what you are used to.”

It's a mere statement of fact, no hidden barb, no insult. Prince Auguste is strangely guileless and open, so different from the tent at Marlas.

“Please,” Auguste says now, making an inviting gesture, “Your journey was long and I am sure you would like some rest. But for the evening, we have prepared a feast in your honor.”

“Much appreciated,” Damen says and waves at his men to unload his luggage from the ship.

 

The one thing Damen likes about Vere is the cuisine. He is treated to several courses of foie gras, quail eggs, candied fruit, and only the best Veretian wine. His father would definitely profit from the new trading routes.

Other things, however, take some getting used to. The nobles and courtiers are all laced up in silks and velvet, tantalizing inches of skin exposed here and there for the especially daring. It is in stark contrast to the half-naked pets they keep around, decorated with jewelry and face-paint.

In Akielos, the slaves wear no clothes at all, but here the gemstones dangling between pert breasts and the sinful red dusted on full lips seem much more scandalous.

Pets sell their bodies in exchange for full bellies, Damen reminds himself of what he has learned during his last-minute lessons. They draw up contracts and promise to serve their masters, all in all a rather pragmatic affair. It is no wonder, really, that people growing up in such an environment would see nothing wrong in doing the same to one of their princes.

Damen tries to focus on other, less stomach-turning, observations. A Veretian feast, for example, is a much quieter affair than an Akielon one. In Ios, though everyone starts out at their assigned seating arrangement, the people begin moving around as the night progresses. There are few boundaries, nobility encouraged to mingle with their soldiers, women leaving their husbands' sides to chat with friends, children and dogs running around, slaves always underfoot. There is music and loud singing, food thrown around, at least past midnight. Drinking contests. Burping contests.

It makes for an easy atmosphere, easier still when it's men Damen has ridden to battle with. They've seen each other piss and fart and fuck and vomit, and that has only strengthened their bonds.

Here, Damen is a stranger, tenaciously holding on to the impeccable manners he had been taught just shortly before coming here.

“You can just eat with your fingers,” Auguste encourages him when Damen rather futilely tries to pierce an orange slice with his silver fork. As if to demonstrate, he snatches up an apple slice from Laurent's plate in an entirely un-Veretian fashion.

“Hey,” Laurents protests, dangerously brandishing his own fork.

“You weren't going to eat it anyway,” Auguste teases, “You had too many chocolates already.”

“Did not,” Laurent huffs, blowing his fringe out of his face.

“He has a sweet tooth,” Auguste informs Damen helpfully, “Is there any food you favor, Prince Damianos?”

“Ah, all kinds of meat,” Damianos says, belatedly realizing how unrefined that answer makes him sound, “But please, my friends call me Damen.”

He does think of the Veretians as friends, of course, but it seems like a prudent offer, not to mention that he hopes the familiar nickname will make him feel a little bit more at ease.

“Damen, then,” Auguste says and smiles again. He hands his smiles out very liberally and Damen would wish to call them fake but they are warm and golden, just like everything about the crown prince, if the stories travelers tell are to be believed.

“We made small-talk and talked about politics so far,” Auguste continues, “But it seems that I know nothing of you as a person yet. What are your interests, your dislikes?”

Veretians, Damen thinks in reply to the latter.

“Sports,” he says instead, “In Akielos, I often participate in various disciplines, such as wrestling and sword-fighting.”

It might be a grim reminder of how he had almost faced the prince in combat, but Auguste easily ignores that.

“I hear there is a game of kings,” he muses, “It is called the _okton_ , I believe.”

“Yes,” Damen says, allowing a genuine smile of his own, “The most difficult of all. A personal favorite.”

“I never quite understood how it works.”

“It demands much of its participants,” Damen explains, “Strength and precision for spear throwing. Quick decision-making and awareness of everything happening around you. Outstanding riding skills.”

Auguste makes an interested noise. “Laurent is a gifted horseman,” he notes, “Perhaps he would be interested in joining one day.”

Damen throws a short glance at Laurent, slight and slender as he his, his face youthful and the palms of his hands soft.

“One day, perhaps,” he agrees good-naturedly, “To be allowed in the _okton_ , one must first prove their worth in one of the other disciplines. Archery, dueling, wrestling.”

“Ah,” Auguste laments, “I'm afraid Laurent hasn't shown much interest in any of those yet.”

“Is it true that, in Akielos, the men wrestling each other are naked and covered in oil?” Laurent suddenly pipes up and Damen throws him a surprised look.

“It is,” he admits.

“Barbaric,” Laurent snorts.

“Now now,” Auguste says soothingly, “I'm sure we have conventions that seem strange to Akielon eyes.”

Damen hums in mild agreement but deems it better to leave it at that.

 

iii

The first few days in Arles are tedious, to say the least. Damen knows he is not yet welcome to wander around on his own so, between the various entertainments offered to him, he prefers to stick to the company of his men.

It's not the best course of action, showing them all to be still ill at ease in the presence of the Veretians. Nikandros especially eyes everyone around them with distrust and it's not long before he earns the title of Royal Guard Dog.

The only bridge between the two parties, spanning across the chasm like a determined thread of gold, is Prince Auguste.

He goes out of his way to make sure his guests feel comfortable, not just Damianos himself but those ranked below him as well. He provides only the most elaborate living quarters and the best food, has wine sent to them in the evenings and inquires about any other wishes they might have.

They are all reluctant at first. Nikandros suspects the wine might be laced with something and refuses to drink any, but the other men are ailed by nothing but mild hangovers the next morning.

With each passing day, Damianos has to grudgingly acknowledge that maybe the Prince of Vere actually means well. It is with that in mind that he eventually agrees to the hunting trip that Auguste proposes.

“Many accidents can happen while hunting,” Nikandros cautions, “Stray arrows and spears, spooked horses. You ought to be careful.”

Damen just rolls his eyes. He has been itching for a chance to get out of the castle and meander further than just the gardens and the markets in town.

They gather in the courtyard, Damen and his entourage, Auguste and some well-meaning friends, as well as the usual rabble of attendants. Laurent is there, too, ignoring all humans around him and instead standing at the edge of the pack of hounds. They seem to like him, easily accepting his presence and the occasional pat on the head.

Damen sighs quietly. So far he has barely had any opportunity to properly get to know the boy. When he had first come here, he had suspected that they would always be supervised by some sort of chaperon, but so far that had not even been necessary. Laurent didn't give him even the semblance of a chance to catch him on his own.

Finally, it is time to mount. Damen is given an impressive blood bay, the largest horse of the party, and when he swings himself up into the saddle he breathes freely for the first time in days. This is something he knows how to do. Hunting and riding come easy to him. Diplomacy does not.

Across the yard, he can see Laurent who is perched on a young piebald mare, neither of them dainty at all but with poised perfection that speaks of years of experience, and Damen recalls how Auguste had mentioned his brother to be a proficient rider.

Auguste himself is, too, if the way he easily maneuvers his gray gelding through the crowd is anything to go by.

“Perfect weather for a hunt!” he calls out to Damen. His long hair is tied back in a high ponytail, swishing back and forth between his shoulder blades with every step his horse takes.

“A little on the hot side,” Damen notes. It's still early morning but it would grow hotter throughout the day. Akielons are used to it, of course, but Veretians surely burn easily.

“The trees will grant us shade,” Auguste knows, “It won't take long to reach the outskirts of the forest.”

“Auguste,” a petulant voice says and when they look up Laurent has joined them.

“Will you help us lead the party?” Damen asks, trying his best to sound warm and inviting, if only so that no one can later claim he never made an effort.

Laurent only bestows him with a cool gaze.

“I always ride by my brother's side,” he claims pointedly, turning his nose up under the guise of adjusting his seat in the saddle.

“Laurent,” Auguste chides in that exasperated tone that Damen has already grown used to hearing over the past couple of days. For the first time in his life, he finds himself strangely relieved that he was never blessed with younger siblings.

“Yes, I will ride with you,” Laurent amends with a roll of his eyes as though it were a terrible chore.

“Wonderful,” Auguste says, “Then let's go.”

Damen's stallion shudders in anticipation.

 

The Great Northern Forests are a sight to behold. Akielos does not have forests like that, not that dense and magical. The foliage offers welcome reprieve from the summer sun, dappling everything in patches of fluid gold, until oaks and beeches give out to larger pine trees.

Damen, to his prideful pleasure, makes the best kill of the day, a large stag that dwarfs even his steed. The meat will probably be rather tough and bitter with age, but the antlers alone make the chase worth it.

Etienne, son of a nobleman and one of Auguste's friends, takes down a boar that will feed them that night, and they all return to the castle hungry and exhausted, but blissful.

The thrill of the hunt has the peculiar habit of uniting men who did not care for each other before. There is a competitive streak to it, doubtlessly, but overall it is a joint effort. Even Nikandros compliments Etienne on his kill and from then on it's easy laughter between them all.

Almost all, Damen amends.

Laurent, though he had been the one to spot the stag first, had not actually participated in the hunt itself. He is too young to take on a boar, of course, but he had not shown particular interest in any case.

Damen groans inwardly. He had already suspected that Laurent was not particularly fond of physical exercise, but if he was one of those waspish boys that shied away from blood and sweat then Damen truly did not know how to handle him.

His tentative attempts to engage Laurent in conversation during their ride had been received by a cold shoulder shrugging him off. Laurent had the incredible talent to walk the fine line between direct insults and bland statements, so Damianos had not allowed himself to call him out on it. It would do little good anyway, he suspects.

The only one who seems to be able to reach Laurent is Auguste and even he seems to be having trouble these days, at least when it comes to convincing him of being nice to his potential spouse.

Momentarily lost in his thoughts, Damen now looks around the busy courtyard because he could have sworn Laurent was there just a moment ago.

“He probably went to take care of his horse,” Auguste informs him as though reading his thoughts.

“Oh?” Damen cocks an eyebrow, “Do the stable boys not live up to his standards?”

“It's not that,” Auguste says, “I gave him that mare when she was little more than a filly. He takes is responsibilities very seriously.”

“A proof of his strength of character,” Damen says, hoping to sound well-meaning, but Auguste only laughs.

“He uses it as an excuse to get away from everything after all the noise,” he explains, “He is fond of solitude.”

Damianos, extroverted to a fault, always happy to be the center of attention, has trouble relating to that.

“He won't partake in dinner then?” he asks politely and Auguste shrugs.

“He'll probably show his face, but don't expect him to be there for long. He must be rather tired. It's been a long day.”

Laurent does appear at the feast, but he only eats half a plate before picking at the rest of his food. He attempts to follow the conversations around him, his gaze zapping around, but he looks more and more tired by the minute.

The boy trying to keep up with the men, Damen thinks and smiles privately.

After some gentle nudging from Auguste, Laurent eventually does make his excuses. He drags his feet as he leaves the hall, just a little, and Damen wonders what he might be like if he truly let his guard down.

There's time for that, though. They have half of the summer still ahead of them.

 

iv

The first time Damen finds himself actually bored since coming to Arles is on a rainy day after summer solstice. The sky is heavy and overcast, forbidding any thoughts of venturing outside. Nikandros and everyone else already left weeks ago and Auguste has duties to attend to, the kind that do not allow for a foreign prince to tag along.

So for once Damianos will have to entertain himself. He decides to go to the library that Auguste had shown him during his first days, even though it takes him a while to find his way back to it, too proud to ask anyone for directions. When he finally does, however, he realizes that he is not as alone as he had expected.

Laurent is curled up on an armchair by the window, a book propped up against his knees and angled towards the sparse light of the white sky. His face doesn't give away much, but he seems to be completely lost in whatever he is reading.

Out of common courtesy, Damen raps his knuckles as he passes one of the shelves, alerting the boy to his presence. Laurent, however, doesn't startle, just drags his eyes up to fleetingly fixate on Damen.

“Are you stalking me now?” he asks and Damen cants his chin forward, by now used to the poor manners he is continuously being shown.

“I was just hoping to find a nice book to entertain me,” he says blandly. He has given up on faking smiles that will only be rebuffed anyway. In a way, he prefers these exchanges between them, no niceties, no pretenses. It's less draining than what he attempted before.

Lazily, Laurent drops his gaze back onto the pages, “I don't think many of these come with pictures.”

“I'll have you know that I'm fluent in not only Veretian but Patran as well,” Damen remarks, irked, “Which is one more language than your brother speaks. Not to mention that Akielos is the birthplace of abstract mathematics and physics. So you should reconsider whether I deserve to be called an uncivilized barbarian.”

That, at least, has Laurent's feathers ruffled, “Vere has achieved just as much.”

“Truly?” Damen asks, randomly pulling a book from a shelf, “Such as what? Poetry?” He flips the tome open, cocks an eyebrow at the words that greet him, “Raunchy poetry.”

“I wouldn't expect an Akielon to understand,” Laurent sniffs.

Damen looks at him for a moment before turning back to the book. Then he takes a deep breath.

“ _His sword sheathed inside me,_

_Yet no blood, no pain,_

_A cry upon my lips_

_Then mine on his._

_So little to lose, so much to gain;_

_In no one's arms I'd rather be_ ,” he reads out loud, glancing up just in time to catch the red creeping high into Laurent's cheek.

“You are right,” Damen continues, making a show of creasing his brow, “I don't understand it. Please enlighten me about the deeper meaning. What is this sword the poem speaks of? Have you much experience with handling one?”

For a moment, Laurent seems to be warring with himself. Damen almost thinks he has taken it too far, has overstepped the boundaries Laurent set before they even exchanged their first words.

Instead, however, Laurent simply jumps up from his seat, whizzing through the library, deftly collecting a number of book in his arms, never once stopping.

“There,” he snarls, tossing book after book down onto the table between him and Damen, giving brief, head-spinning explanations for each, “A condensed account of Veretian history, back to when it split off from Akielos. These are various theological writings by Veretian philosophers; not an easy read, but inspiring. A collection of Veretian folk tales, with illustrations. Veretian linguistics and how it relates to other languages. A genealogy of our noble houses. Horse breeding. Herbalism. Take your pick.”

By the time he finishes, he is short of breath. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes spark like the sun reflecting off the Ellosean Sea.

“You have read all of those,” Damianos realizes quietly and he cannot tell whether the heat in his chest is respect or embarrassment.

“I have,” Laurent bares his teeth, “So stop looking down on me.”

You are rather short, Damen wants to quip.

“I will. If you can return the favor,” he says instead, “Since I came here, your father and your brother have shown me nothing but kindness, and I strive to return it tenfold. Auguste despairs of your being so uncooperative.”

At the mention of his brother, Laurent predictably looks away.

For a little while, they stand in tense silence. Damianos dares to take the next step, more hesitant than he has every felt in his life.

“Which of these would you recommend?” he asks, not knowing what he expects in return.

A beat. Laurent clenches his jaw. With pointed fingers, he pushes one of the books across the table. It's the one on folktales.

“I like this one,” he reveals, “The language is a bit archaic but some of the stories might be similar to what you grew up with in Akielos. They are... entertaining.”

“And they have pictures,” Damen notes.

“And they have pictures,” Laurent agrees.

“Thank you,” Damen says and picks up the book, weighs it in his hand. It is heavy and well-worn.

“May I keep you company?” he asks and Laurent gives a put-upon sigh.

“I can't very well stop you,” he says as though he were not a prince of Vere, “Just don't try to talk to me.”

“What if I don't understand a certain word?”

“Dictionaries are on the far end of that aisle,” Laurent points and then folds himself back into his armchair.

They do not talk for the rest of the afternoon but Damen is curiously alright with that.

 

v

Against his initial expectations, Damen's stay in Arles passes quickly and he finds himself sorry to see summer coming to an end. He's enjoyed himself, he can admit, even though he had originally counted on anything but that. There was no backstabbing, no scandals. Merely a culture other than his own, with differences that he has bridged with relative ease.

He is going to miss Auguste, he knows, having found a true friend in him. Suddenly, peace does not seem like a chore anymore. Their fathers will be proud.

Yet the one bump in the road still remains.

Damen definitely could get behind Auguste, in more ways than just one. Auguste, however, seems to favor women, if his occasionally wandering gazes are anything to go by. Ludicrous to think that, here in Vere, it would be a scandal for the crown prince to be caught with a woman. He keeps a doe-eyed pet by his side, though, but does not truly seem to make much use of him, apart from having him perform tasks that would otherwise be done by mere servants.

One way or another, marrying Auguste is out of the question. Even in a joint nation, Veretians and Akielons would tear themselves apart over which of their kings would be more of a king.

No, the only valid candidate is Laurent and, as summer steadily comes to an end, Damen realizes that that still makes him no proper candidate at all.

It is difficult to view Laurent, who looks and acts so much like a child still, as someone who he might be sharing his life with as an equal. He is bookish and standoffish, headstrong and vicious, and Damen could live with all of that, if he were allowed to still take on other lovers, but what he cannot stand is the thought of imprisoning the boy in a farce of a marriage.

Laurent is spoiled, doubtlessly, but he is also simply used to being doted on by Auguste and, to a lesser extent, by his father and his uncle. He would learn his lesson, one day, but forcefully removing him from the gentle cradle of his family would do him no good.

That is what Damen thinks when he is one evening drinking wine with Auguste, sitting by the open balcony and enjoying the last bit of summer warmth that is still laced through the night.

“So,” Auguste begins anew, after their talk had naturally puttered off in the late hour, “My father has been wondering whether you have made up your mind.”

“About what?” Damen asks, not drunk but lazy with the pleasant atmosphere. He has no head for the Veretian way of beating around the bush. Fortunately, Auguste has always been the most straightforward of the bunch.

“About your betrothal to Laurent,” Auguste says as though it were obvious. Perhaps it is. Damianos simply has a habit of pushing unpleasant matters to the back of his mind, hoping they will not be brought up for closer examination.

“Ah,” he says now, sitting up in his chair. Straightforward or not, Auguste certainly knows what he is doing, plying Damen with sweet wine before asking bitter questions.

I am fond of Laurent, he means to say, but even that would be a lie.

“I know you mean well,” he says instead, carefully cushioning his words, “And I know you only intend what is best for us all. But, Auguste, after the time we have spent together I am glad to call you my friend and I am certain that we will be able to maintain peace without having to go so far as to marrying into each other's family.”

He had expected agreement or gentle ribbing at most. Instead, Auguste has stiffened, staring into his goblet for a long moment before deliberately setting it aside.

“Damen,” he says, leaning forward in his chair. In the sparse candle light, his eyes are pools of blue, deep and unfathomable. “Listen to me,” he says, “I understand your doubts and your misgivings. But this is the only solution.”

“Solution to what?” Damen says, a little uncomfortable, trying to act over it by spreading his arms and slapping on a winsome smile, “We are at peace. We have a contract. What more do we need, truly, but this word between honest men?”

“There is more than-,” August breaks off, wipes a hand over his face. For the first time, Damen feels acutely aware of the years his new friend has on him. “I need you to do this, for Laurent's sake.”

“Laurent?” Damen laughs in disbelief, “Laurent thinks me a brute and a nuisance. He'd rather stab me with a fork than marry me.”

“He shows affection in unusual ways,” Auguste claims but his lips purse, “He is young. He may seem contrary now, but he will grow into a fine upstanding man. Would it truly be such a hardship for you?”

“Auguste,” Damen groans, “Give it two years and your brother will surely slay grown men with a mere look. He already is smart as a whip and just as merciless. Some days I think he understands more about politics than I do. But right now, he is still a child. I cannot set my heart on that and certainly not my crown.”

“But just think-”

“No,” Damen says, a little more forcefully this time, “We are not talking about a willful filly that needs breaking in. Let him grow, prickly a rose though he might be. Don't make me the one to take shears to his thorns.”

“ _That_ ,” Auguste says, “ _That_ is the reason why you are the best option. I didn't know it then, not at Marlas. You were... a distraction. A desperate attempt. But I know it now, I know I can trust you. You would never hurt him, not intentionally.”

Dazedly, Damen wonders how strong the wine was. Because it seems unreal how fast this conversation seems to have spun out of control.

“So give it time,” he repeats, “Two years, three years, what difference does it make, other than that I will be able to look at your brother and be able to think of him as an equal instead of chattel? I can return next summer or the two of you can come to Akielos. And who knows, maybe something will take root then, if the gods deem the earth fertile.”

“Please,” Auguste pleads, his voice shaking. Helplessly, Damen thinks the other prince is one moment away from falling to his knees in front of him. “Please give him a chance. Go through with the engagement. You can still break it off later on, for whatever reason. But for now, Damen, I beg of you – agree to marry my brother.”

And Damen cannot even begin to understand, cannot comprehend why Auguste would be so utterly desperate in this matter. He doesn't know what to say, how to console or convince him.

So, in the end, he chooses the only option there is.

“Alright,” he relents, his own voice a dull echo in his head, “If he will have me, then alright.”

 

vi

The engagement feast takes place in Arles. King Aleron had been not exactly delighted but agreeable to the idea of sealing the deal, even going so far as to dismiss the concerns voiced by his brother.

Laurent himself, however, refuses to speak his mind.

“I agree,” he had said when Damen had tried to press his opinion on the matter, “Isn't that enough?”

“I want to know I'm not forcing you into anything,” Damen had insisted, “You are still young-”

“As you keep reminding everyone,” Laurent had scoffed, “Nevertheless, I understand politics. I may not be the heir but I accept that sometimes sacrifices have to be made.”

“Akielos would honor the contract in any case,” Damen had pointed out, “I am only acting on Auguste's request.”

“As am I,” Laurent had said and that had been the premature and unsatisfying end of it.

The feast, at least, makes the trouble kind of worth it. It is held on the evening before Damen's return to Ios and King Aleron has gone out of his way to organize something deserving on such a short notice. There are dancers and musicians, performing a mixture of Akielon and Veretian plays and songs. They are missing the cruder drinking songs, but the night is still young.

Damianos is clad in a swan-white chiton, adorned only with golden thread at the seams. It's the best he had brought with him from home, but next to the Veretian nobles he feels painfully underdressed.

Laurent is wearing a black doublet, laced up tight and much too severe for his coloring. He looks better suited to a funeral than his upcoming nuptials, and he has the facial expression to go with it.

“Smile, little brother,” Damen overhears Auguste remind him on more than one occasion, and each time Laurent plasters the facsimile of bliss onto his lips.

He looks prettier with a real smile, with shining eyes and rosy cheeks, as Damen had the fortune to witness now and then, when Laurent went riding, when he was lost in a particularly riveting book, or merely when he talked to Auguste. Yet Damen has never been on the witnessing end of such a smile and he feels all the poorer for it.

“Congratulations,” Lady Vannes says, a noblewoman whom Damen has gotten to fleetingly know during the past weeks, “It's been a long time since there was a wedding in the royal family, and never such a – ah – controversial one, I believe.”

“It is not yet a wedding,” Damen cautions as much as he dares to, “But I thank you nevertheless.”

“He is quite the catch,” Vannes notes teasingly, “And not yet fully grown, I believe.”

It takes Damen a moment to realize that this is directed not at him but at Laurent who is seated beside him. Laurent glares at Vannes, glances at Damen and then studiously stares down at his plate again. His cheek are dusted red.

“Then when do you think the official ceremony will be held?” Lady Vannes asks, smoothly accepting Laurent's lack of response, “I've always favored spring weddings, to be honest.”

Spring, Damen thinks sullenly, little more than half a year away.

“Not for another three or four years at least,” he says instead and Vannes' eyes widen.

“That far into the future?” she asks in disbelief, “That's a – ah – an unusually long period for an engagement, even among royalty.”

“I'd like for Laurent to be able to spread his wings a little,” Damen admits with a pleasant smile. Before he is all too quickly stuck into another golden cage, he thinks. “There are many things he has yet to learn, about being a man and a king and himself. I want to give him that time.”

Next to him there is a small noise, followed by a dull clatter. When he looks over, he finds that Laurent has knocked over his golden goblet.

“How clumsy of me,” he says idly and beckons over a servant who immediately begins mopping up the watered down wine that has spilled across the table. Some of it has splattered onto over his lap, too, barely even noticeable on the dark velvet, but he smoothly rises to his feet anyway.

“Please excuse me,” he tells Vannes and Damianos, “I should get myself cleaned up.”

“My prince, do you require-,” the servant speaks up hesitantly, but Laurent waves her off.

“I shall manage on my own,” he says and, after just barely inclining his head at Damianos, he walks off.

Once alone, the Lady Vannes openly grins at Damen.

“He's a handful, that one,” she tells him, almost conspiratorially.

“Aren't all Veretians?” he asks, certain in the knowledge that it won't be taken as an affront.

Vannes throws her head back an laughs.

“Indeed,” she agrees, “But Laurent more so than anyone else.”

 

For all the pomp and splendor, it becomes painfully obvious that the engagement is nothing more but an empty gesture. Though Laurent does make a re-appearance later on, he does not return to Damen's side, instead choosing to keep to the outskirts of the festivities, vaguely entertaining some minor nobles. He is not the youngest present, but he is by far the most cultured among his peers. He does not appear to have many friends, his need for social interaction satisfied by what Auguste gladly offers him. Yet Damen can read it as nothing but another glaring contrast between himself and the little prince.

Damianos has never had trouble making friends, out of strangers, out of rivals. He has a winning nature that his half his father's temperament, half his mother's kindness, and wholly his own easy charm. People gravitate towards him, men and women of every age and status, for various reasons, children like him and animals trust him. Even the Veretians here who had been skeptical of him had quickly been drawn in by his humor and easy-going nature, since he, of course made, a point of always being on his best behavior.

The only one resistant to his allure, it seemed, was still Laurent. It's not surprise, really. The boy is spiteful and stubborn. Because of their engagement, it was practically demanded of him that he like his new spouse. Quietly projecting his dislike was his only means of acting out against expectations.

I have years, Damen reminds himself. Years to still break off the engagement. Auguste had promised after all, and Damen would take him up on it.

Across the hall, he spots Laurent being apprehended by his uncle. At first he thinks the boy might be getting a reprimand for abandoning his fiancé this early into the night, but the man's expression is kind, his body language gentle, and after only a few words, the pinch on Laurent's face smooths and he gives an agreeable nod.

Damen reaches across the table for some grapes and, when he looks up again, he has lost track of Laurent.

He makes his excuses not much later, citing his early departure upon the morrow. King Aleron has already begged off because of a headache, and Auguste's friends are crowded around him, ribbing him about soon having to find a wife as well, naming various candidates, one more outrageous than the next, until one finally offers his mare's hoof in marriage.

Veretians, Damen sighs fondly and makes for his chambers.

His belongings have already been packed away in a number of chests. He hadn't brought much with him when he first came here, but he has been given a wide array of presents and plans to bring some souvenirs for his loved ones as well. Primarily Veretian wine for his father, of course, but also various trinkets that caught his eyes here and there, reminding him of Kastor and Nikandros and the cook's little daughter.

He slips out of his sandals, flexes his toes a little, runs a hands through his hair, before stepping over to the wash basin that has been set out by one of his servants. He splashes water on his faces, wipes some of the tiredness away. He is not exhausted as such, not physically anyway. But the strain of a maintaining a pleasant facade throughout the evening has taken its toll.

Maybe this is why Laurent prefers to be on his own. The Veretian court has a peculiar way of getting under your skin and, though Damen does not think them the dangerous vipers he once did, he still feels as though being thrown into a snake pit would be the less daunting affair.

All of a sudden, there is a frantic knock at his door. Immediately, Damen is on alert. No attendant would ever knock like that, not if there weren't a life-threatening matter, and the same goes for the guards.

Quickly, Damianos grabs his sword from the bedside table and then makes his way over to the entrance with fast, but quiet steps.

“Who's there?” he demands, his voice as sharp as the blade he has unsheathed.

“Damianos,” Laurent's voice comes through the wood, “Damen, it's me.”

Damen is so caught off guard that he does not even question it. He opens the door, sword loosely at his side, his chest carelessly exposed.

“Laurent?” he asks, stumbling back when Laurent squeezes himself through the gap and slams the door shut. “What on earth happened?”

Because Laurent looks disheveled and out of breath, as though he had just run from one side of the castle to the other.

It takes the boy a long moment to gather himself, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed. When he opens his eyes, they are determined and unflinchingly trained on Damen's.

“I want to go with you,” he says and there is just the faintest quiver in his voice.

Damen stares.

“Go where?” he stammers, “What do you mean?”

But Laurent does not answer right away, just takes an unsteady step forward and clenches his fists in the front of Damen's chiton.

“Take me with you,” he begs and for some reason he has the same desperate look that Auguste wore only a few nights ago, “Take me with you to Akielos.”

“What?” Damen startles, “Laurent, what are you talking about all of a sudden?”

“Please,” Laurent says, his voice hitching, and then he surges up to kiss him.

 

vii

The next morning, Damen wakes with a groan and to the sound of rapid knocking on his door. Rather reminiscent of last night, really.

He groans again as he gets up, rubs his shoulders, because sleeping on the divan had not been the best of ideas, and then makes to open the door. Once more, his sword is by his side, trusted and steady.

“Damen,” Auguste says as soon as they come face to face, and his eyes are wild, “Damen, have you seen Laurent, he-”

“Ah,” Damen says, stepping aside to let him in, “He's here.”

Auguste practically falls into the room and then he crosses it with quick strides, over to the bed where Laurent is still blissfully unaware of the worry he had apparently caused.

It takes Damianos a moment to shrug off the disorientation of sleep but, when he does, he freezes.

“It's not what it looks like,” he insists hurriedly because he knows exactly what it looks like. His young fiancé found defenseless in his bed after having been missing all night. For any lesser men, it would be a death sentence.

Instead of infuriated, however, Auguste only looks relieved.

“Oh thank Heavens,” he breathes, heavily leaning against the chair Damen had sat on last night as he waited for Laurent to drift off to sleep, “I had feared- but oh, he's too clever by far.”

“What?” Damen blinks, not understanding at all what is happening in his friend's head. Or what had been going on in Laurent's, for that matter.

“Nothing, just-,” Auguste wipes a palm across his face, “I was worried for him. His servants couldn't find him anywhere and I thought- But he was just with you.”

“He showed up last night after I left the feast,” Damen explains, hoping to get some proper explanation in turn, “He appeared rather frantic and... he begged me to take him to Akielos today.”

He does not mention the kiss, of course, but Auguste still looks up sharply. His face is pale.

“Did you agree?” he asks.

“He would only calm down when he had wrangled the promise from me,” Damianos admits, “But-”

“Yes,” Auguste nods, starting to pace around, “Yes, that's for the best.”

Damen finds himself reminded of how Auguste had wanted his brother to go to Akielos from the very beginning, before they had even written up the contract. But why? Why is he so adamant about it? And why is Laurent, too, all of a sudden?

“Auguste?” Laurent mumbles, stirring on the bed. He must have been extremely wrought out from yesterday to have slept through most of the commotion.

“Laurent,” Auguste breathes, sinking down onto the mattress and reaching out a hand to run through the boy's messy hair, “Are you alright?”

The brothers exchange a long look then and an entire conversation passes between them, one Damen cannot even begin to comprehend. Finally, Laurent gives a short nod and Auguste's shoulders slump with released tension.

“You'll go to Akielos then?” he asks and again Laurent nods.

“Father will be surprised,” Auguste warns.

“I'll convince him,” Laurent promises, “I'm older now.”

By one summer, Damen thinks, frazzled. He has completely lost track of what is going on.

Auguste turns around, turns his earnest eyes upon him.

“Do you really agree to this?” he asks, “To fostering my brother in Ios?”

“Of course,” Damen says because that, at least, he can promise, even if nothing else makes sense, “But for how long?”

“A year, at least,” Auguste decides.

“A year?” Damen starts, “Surely-”

“A year,” Laurent says, his tone brokering no argument, “Until...”

He trails off, another moment of silence between him and Auguste. It feels very profound. Very final.

“A year, then,” Damen relents, etching a smile onto his face, “Akielon winters are wonderfully mild. You'll like it.”

 

As predicted, King Aleron is surprised, but it does not take much get him to agree.

“If I am to marry him, then I should get to know his country and his people first,” Laurent claims stoutly, hands folded behind his back.

“You barely speak Akielon,” Aleron cautions.

“All the more reason,” Laurent says, “What better teacher is there than an entire kingdom?”

“Very well, then,” Aleron nods, “You know you are free to return at any time, should you wish to.”

“As though anyone could stop me,” Laurent says and smiles.

“You will treat my son well, Prince Damianos,” the King says, and it's an order and a threat.

“Of course, your Highness,” Damen says because there is no alternative.

He still does not understand what has happened. From Laurent and Auguste's panic from before to their calm reasoning now, nothing seems to make sense. Least of all the kiss that neither he nor Laurent have acknowledged since then, though Damen suspects it was mostly a means to distract him than anything else. He does not fool himself into believing that the boy has suddenly discovered his undying love for him.

Indeed, after Laurent had wrestled the surrender from Damen, had made him agree to take him to Akielos, he had promptly fallen asleep in Damen's bed, as though the tumultuous emotions had bereaved him of his powers.

Preparations the next morning then had left everyone in a flurry, the court hastily arranging everything for their prince's departure. Laurent does not seem to be overly worried, claiming that he does not need much of anything and that he can always send word to Arles to have something delivered later on.

Though Damen had planned to leave by midmorning, they are delayed till the early afternoon when they finally make their way down to the docks. Of the royal family, only Auguste joins them. Aleron has other matters to attend and his brother had been curiously absent all day.

Ironically enough, the Akielon ship waiting for them is called _Ivory Princess_ , and Damen cannot help but think how much Laurent will stick out in Ios where only some prized slaves had such fair coloring as him.

“Farewell, Prince Damianos,” Auguste tells him now, formally shaking his hand, but then he leans in and kisses Damen square on the mouth. Kissed by two Veretian princes in less than half a day. Damen must be setting a new record.

“Take care of him,” Auguste says with his forehead still pressed against Damen's, “I beg of you.”

“Of course,” Damen replies solemnly, though by now he knows that there must be something he isn't being told. But he still considers Auguste his friend and that means trusting him.

Then it is time for Auguste to say goodbye to Laurent. They hold on to each other, Auguste on his knees to better wrap his arms around the smaller boy. It seems like a crime to the gods to force those brothers apart. Damen does not understand why they insist on separating each other. He hopes they know what they are doing.

When they finally board the ship, Laurent is accompanied by two personal guards, two attendants, and a cook who claims to be able to prepare Veretian cuisine even far from home.

It takes a while to get the ship moving but, when they do, Auguste is still standing by the docks. He and Damen wave at each other. Laurent keeps his hands firmly clenched around the railing.

They stand like this, side by side, no words spoken, as they make their way out onto the open sea.

“Last chance,” Damen says eventually, not looking over.

“What?” Laurent says, frowning up at him.

“If you jump overboard now, you can still safely swim back.” To Vere, to Arles, to Auguste.

Laurent lets out a shuddering breath and squares is narrow shoulders.

“I'm not a very strong swimmer,” he admits, turning away from the railing.

Damen allows himself a small smile.

“I'll have to teach you then,” he says and they both know that it's a promise.

At their backs, Arles slowly fades into the distance. But the world always has new horizons to offer.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! Since this is my first fic for this fandom and on top of that one that is set in an alternate pre-canon scenario, I am kind of worried about getting the voices right. Then again, Auguste at least seems like the fandom's collective OC, so whatever.


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say that I was blown away by the feedback I got so far. I've gotten so many nice comments from readers I had in other fandoms and, in one case, someone who's never even read Captive Prince at all. I hope I can keep you intrigued for a little longer.  
> This chapter was such fun to work on because it mostly about the evolution of Damen and Laurent's relationship, so I hope you enjoy it as well.

viii

Though their voyage is calm and uninterrupted, the ocean benevolent around them, the return of the _Ivory Princess_ to Akielos is overshadowed by Laurent's poor mood. He behaves, as a feral cat behaves as long as you don't try to touch her, but the look in his eyes belies the storms he would like to unleash, like thunder in the distance, clouds at the far horizon.

Although Damen knows he might have been hoping against hope, the tentative camaraderie he thought to have established with Laurent does not last long. They are strangers, and stranger still is the city of Ios with its white marble pillars and brown bare-skinned people. Maybe too strange for sheltered eyes such as Laurent's.

The Akielon court, arguably, is almost more difficult for Laurent to handle than the Veretian one was for Damen.

For one, Damen had been a highborn guest for only a couple of weeks, just after establishing a precarious treaty, meaning that almost everyone had taken special care not to offend him in any way. There had been none of the alleged public fucking that sometimes happened at parties, or at least Damen had not been invited to one which had saved him the embarrassment of trying to figure out how to respectfully recline.

For Laurent, things are much different. His arrival had been unannounced, a great surprise for everyone involved. No one had been able to prepare anything in advance, no favored food, no private chambers in Veretian style, and the steward had nearly fallen over himself in his hurry to prepare something adequate.

'Adequate', incidentally, had also been the only comment that Laurent had made after Damen had graciously shown him to what he explained were the best chambers in the whole palace, just after those of the king and the princes.

Laurent himself, fortunately, had been welcomed easily enough. Damen suspects that Auguste could have befriended the entire army by the end of the first day, but for all his bristliness Laurent is also still a child. No one feels too offended or even threatened by his behavior. And the boy does at least make an effort to dutifully pay his respects to King.

Theomedes had welcomed Laurent and promised him all the amenities he might require which Laurent had graciously thanked him for, also presenting him with a number of small satchels that contained seeds and bulbs for various plants not native to Akielos.

“So that something prosperous may grow of our countries' friendship,” Laurent had recited as Aleron had instructed him.

Later that day, Theomedes had pulled Damen aside and given him an intense stare.

“Should I be planning the feast for the wedding?” he had asked, completely unfazed by Damen's answering groan.  
“No, father,” he had claimed, “I maintain that he is still much too young and that I will not be pressured into making a decision just yet.”

“That's not what your attendants tell me.”  
“Father, I am not a child anymore. You don't need to ask them about what I get up to in your absence.”  
Yet Theomedes had only crossed his arms in front of his chest, “So when they told me that you had already celebrated your engagement in Vere, that was a lie?”

“It's a bit more complicated than that.”

“So do I or do I not need to plan the wedding?”

Damen had taken a deep exasperated breath, “For now I have not brought home a bride, but a foster brother. And I would prefer to keep it that way.”

“Very well,” Theomedes had nodded, “A blossoming marriage has friendship as its roots.”

Damen had not bothered to correct him.

What remains for him now is to make good of his promise to Auguste and Aleron and to make sure that Laurent is well taken care off. That, however, is easier said an done. While food and housing are naturally not at all a problem in a palace such as theirs, Damen has no idea how to actually integrate Laurent into this new world.

Whereas at first, Laurent is treated as a bit of a curiosity, subjected to raised eyebrows and overly loud whispers, he soon becomes little more than part of the scenery. Life goes on and everything is as it always was, loud and busy, with naked slaves and crude words spoken at the dinner table.

Laurent does not appear overly fazed by either of those, but he also makes no effort to engage, showing his face whenever it is expected of him, before disappearing back into his chambers and locking himself away.

Damen's repeated offers for any sort of entertainment grow from friendly to bland to annoyed, always rebuffed in any case.

Until finally Damen has had enough.

 

ix

Laurent, of course, is to be found in his quarters, nose buried in a book. It's difficult to determine whether he is just ignoring Damen or whether he honestly did not hear him enter.

When Damen throws down an Akielon blade onto the table between them, however, Laurent finally looks up.

“It's customary to knock before one enters someone's rooms,” Laurent points out dryly. His gaze flicks down to the sword on the table and then to the one in Damen's hand, but he doesn't say anything else.

Damen, however, does not bother with beating around the bush.

“Pick up the sword,” he demands.

“ _Why_?” Laurent says with disgust as though Damen had just dared him to eat dog shit.

“I promised your brother to protect you,” Damen reminds him, watching as Laurent carefully clears his face of any emotions.

“So?” the boy asks primly.

“So that includes teaching you how to protect yourself,” Damen explains, “Pick up your sword.”

Despite his best efforts, Laurent almost looks surprised at that explanation. But only for a moment. Then he turns back to his book.

“If I wanted to learn how to fight, I would ask Jord,” he claims, turning to the next page.

Jord, Damen knows, is one of the guards that had accompanied Laurent to Akielon, a gruff, but calm and reliable man. Appearance-wise there was little to him which just meant that he was easily underestimated.

“Is he any good?” Damen asks.

“One of the best,” Laurent claims and it must be the truth because otherwise Auguste would not have sent him along.

“Does he know how to handle Akielon swords, though?”

“Does it matter?” Laurent scoffs, “The point is to make the other bastard die, isn't it?”

“But they are different,” Damen angles his sword this way and that way, letting the muscles play in his arm, “The dance is different.”

Laurent is looking up again, maybe intrigued by the truth of the words.

“How would I trust you to not just run me through with your blade and call it an accident?” he wants to know because this was never meant to be easy.

“If I wanted you dead, I would just look you in a room with a lot of books and no food,” Damen taunts, “You would be so immersed in your reading, you wouldn't even notice that you are starving.”

Laurent looks annoyed at that but he also does no dispute the potential truth.

“Luckily,” Damen continues, “I am aiming for the exact opposite. Which includes food, your survival, and no books.”

Because Damen, having remembered Auguste mentioning Laurent's sweet tooth, has gone down to the kitchen to nag the cooks a little until they had provided some pastries. Damen had put them into a small pouch and now pulls it from the folds of his chiton.

“Here,” he says now and throws the pouch at Laurent, “As a reward.”

Laurent frowns as he unwraps the still warm honey puffs.

“I am not a child that can be baited with sweets,” he says, clearly exasperated.

“I know,” Damen smirks, “They are a reward for me. I am going to win them back from you.”

“What?” Laurent says but then Damen is already jumping forward, sword pointed in extremely un-Akielon fashion, just so that Laurent understands what is happening.

Laurent jerks, nearly falls out of his chair, scoots backwards instead.

“Pick up the sword,” Damen reminds him joyously and arches his sword down in a long graceful bow. It's more true to his people's fashion but still slow enough that Laurent can quickly scramble for the second sword that lies abandoned between them. His other hand, petulantly, is clenched around the pouch with the honey puffs because in some ways, no matter how hard he tries to make it otherwise, Laurent is still utterly predictable.

After, when Damen has won the fight but Laurent has spitefully stuffed all the honey puffs into his mouth, not surrendering a single one, they take a walk in the orchards to wind down and enjoy the mild evening air. The days are getting shorter. Winter is still a far-away thought, especially so far in the South, but the change in seasons can already been seen all around them.

“What kind of trees are these?” Laurent asks, narrowing his eyes at the leaves on the branches.

“Different kind of orange trees,” Damen replies, “These will only blossom and carry fruit next spring, but in the lower gardens they should be ripe by now.”

Laurent is silent for a few moments.

“I like orange cakes,” he says eventually.

Damen considers this.

“I shall tell the cooks to prepare some for tomorrow,” he promises.

“Why are you nice to me?” Laurent asks.

“Because your brother is my friend,” Damen says, “And I would like to be your friend as well.”

“A Veretian can never truly be friends with an Akielon,” Laurent claims, “There is too much bad blood between us.”

“No friendship then,” Damen relents easily. He cannot fault Laurent for thinking such, not when only a little while ago his own opinion had been much the same.

“A truce,” he proposes instead, stopping underneath one of the still barren orange trees and offering Laurent a hand, “So that we may get through the year without killing each other.”

“What about mercy killings?” Laurent asks, “Or self-defense? Or accidents?”

“Our fathers cannot expect the impossible of us,” Damen agrees, “No murder with ulterior motives.”

“Fine by me,” Laurent says and reaches out to shake his hand.

It's a poor promise. Damen has no doubt that, if he were to set his mind to it, Laurent would manage to make his life a living hell anyway.

 

x

Iphgenos comes to court and he brings with him his flock of daughters, hoping to educate them in Ios and probably also to find good matches for them. They are all beautiful, Odalis, the youngest, just shy of Laurent's age, but the most stunning of all is doubtlessly the Lady Jokaste.

She is a lioness in the prairie and, when they are formally introduced to each other, she seeks Damen out with sharp certainty.

“My son Damianos,” Theomedes says with pride because Iphgenos has no heir, “And his fiancé Laurent, prince of Vere.”

Jokaste does not even blink, because the engagement has been common knowledge for a while now, but her gaze flickers over to Laurent, quickly assessing. She must see what Damen had seen at Marlas, a frail princeling, little more than a boy, nothing to be be immediately afraid of, and then her eyes are back on Damen. She smiles.

“Oh?” Iphgenos says, inclining his head toward Laurent in a gesture of respect at foreign royalty, “When will the wedding be?”

“Soon,” Theomedes promises.

“My father is eager,” Damen interferes, “But there is no rush.”

Jokaste's smile widens.

She sits with them during dinner that night, after efficiently befriending on of the _kyroi_ 's wife and receiving an invitation to their table. She eats with care, speaks with care, laughs with care. Every movement is deliberate and Damen finds himself intrigued.

He is not unaware of what is happening. She is a beautiful young woman with too many sisters and no brothers. Her only chance in life is to find a good husband. Damianos, as the prince, is the best.

If they had met even half a year earlier, Damen would have had her on her back and in his bed before she even finished her first cup of wine. She would be willing, too, and experienced. There is that tilt to her nose, that curl of her smile that tells him she knows exactly what she is doing. What she would do, if given the chance.

She is not given the chance. Because whatever interest Damen might have, he does not act on it, out of respect for Laurent.

He thinks Laurent would care little either way, that anything Damen does would only lower his opinion even further. But Damen finds it difficult to invite anyone into his bed, knowing that his fiancé is nearby.

He groans inwardly, resisting the urge to rub a hand over his face. How would he be expected to take mistresses if they were actually married?

He has also noticed Laurent's dislike for slaves, one that is even more palpable than the bland disregard Auguste had always expressed when faced with pets, so Damen had taken care to surround himself with common servants, hoping that it would make Laurent more comfortable.

Back in Arles, there had been no slaves at all and Damen had not dared to approach anyone for a tumble. If they were caught, it would reflect badly on Akielos. Now, with Laurent present, he feels equally inhibited.

Needless to say, Damianos has grown rather fond of his right hand.

“Say, Prince Damianos,” Jokaste begins thoughtfully. She has lifted a red grape to her plush lips and it's poised there, ready to be devoured at a single push of her finger. “How did you and Prince Laurent come to be betrothed?”

She must know about the parlay and the treaty, after all her father had been present at Marlas, and Damen wonders what she is trying to achieve with that question, whether she wants to make him uncomfortable or make him realize what he is missing out on. So while he is still thinking of an answer, Laurent is beating him to the punch.

“He won me as a consolation prize,” Laurent says, not even bothering to look up from his plate, utter disregard of Jokaste's calculated grace, “He wanted another kingdom but he got me instead.”

For a split second, Jokaste looks surprised. Then her smile changes. It looks somewhat strained now but also, strangely, more honest than before.

“And what exactly are you, Prince Laurent?” she asks, leaning in slightly. It is the first time she has taken her eyes off of Damen for more than a few seconds at a time.

“Why, milady,” Laurent says and, when he looks up, his eyes are as blue and innocent as the sea after a shipwreck, “Your future king, I believe.”

 

xi

There are other lessons, beside sword-fighting, that eventually become necessary.

Laurent's knowledge of their language is rudimentary and only covered High Akielon which no one actually speaks except for at official ceremonies, so Damen takes it upon himself to make sure that the boy can actually get around on his own. It's not only that he wants Laurent to be able to participate in conversations at the table, but that he realizes how crippling it must be for someone like Laurent to be unable to understand what people around you are saying.

Laurent, for one, takes the gesture for granted. He is gifted and learns Akielon easily enough, though the typical Veretian lilt still remains to his words, his voice itself too smooth for the rough vowels. Damen likes it, teases him about it, teaches him swearwords and insults. Laurent seems to pick up those especially quickly. When Damen feels like he has run out of lessons, he hires an instructor to properly teach him, not just the language, but the history and peculiarities of the country as well.

While he still continues to instruct Laurent in the art of Akielon sword fighting, Jord has taken it upon himself to teach him the Veretian style. Sometimes Damen joins them, learning a thing or two about dueling himself. Learning a lot about Laurent.

Laurent is not an honorable fighter and never will be. He fights like he argues, always aiming to hit below the belt.

“There is no such thing as an honorable fight,” he claims, “If I fight, I aim to kill or at least incapacitate. And for that, anything goes.”

They go riding a lot because that, apart from reading, seems to be one of the few pastimes that Laurent uninhibitedly enjoys. Damen also makes good of his promise of teaching him how to swim, though Laurent complains endlessly that the waters are by now too cold and unsettled.

“And if you ever fall aboard and need to keep yourself afloat?” Damen asks, “Will the sea politely cease its turmoil and let you swim to safety?”

So Laurent just glares unhappily and throws himself back into the waves.

“You spend too much time with the boy,” Kastor remarks when they are drinking one night, “And neglect your duties instead. Father will grow impatient.”

“Father was the one who urged me to consider the engagement,” Damen huffs, “Therefore I consider my fiancé one of my duties.”

Kastor is silent, his brow furrowed as he looks into his cup, thoughtfully swirling the wine, stirring up waves much smaller than the ones Laurent had braved earlier that day.

“You are truly considering it,” he murmurs, “Of making a Veretian your queen.”

“He's not a woman,” Damen snorts, “And I'm not considering anything. The engagement is just a temporary solution to tie us closer to Vere. Don't worry, you'll yet have your little nephews and nieces.”

But Kastor only gives him a thin smile.

“You've always been a poor liar, brother,” he says and Damen downs his drink.

Laurent himself, for that matter, does not seem to care for Kastor either, though he is much more subtle about showing it, mainly by not trying to interact with him at all. He gets along fine with Theomedes, though, after making a snarky comment about a certain courtier which had made Damen's father laugh till he was red in the face and couldn't continue eating.

“Please refrain from dying, Exalted,” Laurent had commented dryly, “My father and brother would not take kindly to me destroying their efforts of getting into your good graces.”

“Now now,” Theomedes had chuckled, “But if I were to die, that would make you Akielos' soon-to-be queen, wouldn't it?”

“Father, please,” Kastor had frowned, “Is this really something to jest about?”

Is wasn't and Damen would rather that not everyone around him treated his marriage to Laurent as an eventual inevitability. Especially since he seems to be the only one worrying about it, while Laurent barely even batted an eyelash at the many insinuations that were sent their way. So many, in fact, that Damen considered getting an entirely new set of friends.

Because, though prickly at first, Laurent quickly becomes a favorite among Damen's men. At first, they seem to think of him as some sort of mascot, like that one scrappy cat that haunts the stables, but once he bests one of their new recruits in a duel, he easily earns their respect.

“He'll make a fine queen,” they joke and slap Damen on the back.

Damen wants to scream a little every time, but he just rolls his eyes good-naturedly and keeps his tongue. Let them have their fun, he thinks.

Even among the younger ones, he's not the only one to have a spouse. There is Icar's Nsya who is loud and boisterous and drinks like a horse while Ephelion's wife Adena seems shy at first glance but is apparently quietly demanding in regards to anything from love-making to kitchen utensils. Akielon women are notorious for their strength of character and Damen's men seem to see that same quality in Laurent.

They are wrong, though. Akielon women are bears and lionesses and draft horses. Laurent of Vere is a viper in the grass, fast and fierce and absolutely deadly. Damen wonders whether he'll ever have to suck out the poison.

 

xii

Sometimes, ships bring letters from Vere and Laurent's eyes glow whenever he receives one from Auguste. He never reads them in public, just eagerly drinks in his brother's neat handwriting on the envelope, before disappearing to his quarters as soon as possible.

Damen is upholding a correspondence with Auguste as well. Usually it is lighthearted banter, meaningless gossip as they talk about people the other doesn't even really know in anything but name. They boast of their latest hunts and make grand plans how to improve their kingdoms when they are eventually crowned.

It's a nice respite from busy court life for both of them and Damen would think that it ought to be the same for Laurent. Yet Laurent, for all the stars in his eyes whenever he gets a new letter, often returns from reading them looking more withdrawn than before, his thoughts turned inward as he worries at his lower lip.

Damen makes no efforts to ask. He knows Laurent well enough by now and the boy would only clamp up more if pressured for answers. So instead, Damen does what always worked best for himself and tries to take Laurent's mind off whatever matters weigh him down.

He takes Laurent along on official business, inspecting forts and borders. Damen has to properly introduce Laurent as his fiancé and the various _kyroi_ and their wives in turn make the according obeisances.

Laurent carries himself with more dignity than Damen ever did at that age and he finds himself impressed. He suspects that Laurent himself must be preening on the inside because this might well be the first time that he is being taken serious in regard to matters of ruling a country. Damen does not doubt that Laurent has been treated well by his family, but he also believes that they must have mollycoddled and underestimated him quite a bit.

Auguste, of course, saw the potential in his brother, but he also looked at him through the eyes of someone who had, once upon a time, fallen in love with a rosy-cheeked baby. It would be quite some time until he truly regarded Laurent as someone who did not need constant protection.

 

Other than Laurent's recurring strange moods whenever he gets word from Arles, life is wondrously carefree, for once no war looming at the horizon.

They take walks at the beach sometime, silence in between the sounds of the sea gulls and the waves splashing against the shore.

Laurent has grown a couple of inches, just enough that none of the clothes he brought more Vere comfortably fit him anymore. He wears more airy shirts now, appropriate for the milder climate, though he still does not favor the _chiton_. He's all lean muscle, even as the skinniness of youth still remains. He'll never be a broad man, Damen thinks, but he might grow a bit taller yet.

From all the time they spent outside in the sun, his skin has taken a golden sheen and there are freckles dusting his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, making him look more boyish and more bold at the same time.

Sand between his bare toes, Laurent bends down to pick up a particularly pretty shell, tilting it this way and that way as he inspects it. He sends little trinkets to Auguste sometimes and this might well become one. The crown prince of Vere, it seems, does not favor expensive presents.

Damen watches as the salt wind tugs at Laurent's gold-spun hair.

“Your hair has grown long,” he notes. Like Laurent's height this, too, is a gradual change that he has only grown aware of recently. The hair barely reaches Laurent's shoulders but he ties it back with a piece of string now whenever he is dueling or reading. Pragmatism instead of vanity, and Damen can appreciate that.

“Ah,” Laurent says, self-consciously touching one of the wayward strands. He almost looks as though he himself had not noticed before.

“Trying to look more like your brother?” Damen teases, watching as a number of contradictory emotions flicker across Laurent's face.

“No. I used to keep it short because I thought wearing it long would make me look too...” He trails off, searches for a word. “Pretty.”

“You are pretty either way,” Damen laughs. Laurent's golden halo is nothing but a frame to an already stunning piece of art.

For a long moment, Laurent just looks at him, as though trying to figure him out. He still does that sometimes, even after all the months they have spent together.

“Why do you say that?” he asks, “I am already promised to you. There is no need for flattery.”

“It's not flattery if it's the truth,” Damen points out and sends him a brazen smile, “I'm sure you've been told before.”

“Yes,” Laurent amends, “But usually people want something.”

“Well, I want you to know that it suits you,” Damen says, “Pretty or handsome or whatever word you prefer.”

“Sometimes I wish you would lie,” Laurent says, “That would be easier to understand.”

“I try to keep you on your toes,” Damen claims and winks at him, “Come now. Let's go back to the palace. I heard the cooks say there'll be pheasant tonight.”

 

xiii

On his fifteenth name day, it becomes apparent that, though his voice still breaks sometimes and he has yet to shave his chin, Laurent already very much considers himself a man, tried and tested and not to be taken lightly.

To acknowledge at least that much, Damen's gift for him is carefully chosen – a silver stiletto, a slim knife meant to be worn close to the body, hidden underneath clothes.

“It reminded me of you,” Damen claims because it is sharp and cunning and not to be underestimated, “You too are small and dainty.”

“Want me to try it out on you?” Laurent asks wryly but he is already testing the grip of it in his hand, running his fingers over the plain hilt and the side of the slim blade.

Like Laurent, there are no gemstones decorating it, no fine engravings. It is not a gift meant to be looked at but a tool that can be put to use. Laurent knows that.

“Thank you,” he says. His eyelashes are lowered but even from this angle Damen can tell that the corners of his mouth are curving upward. “I have no doubt that I will have need it someday.”

“But please save it for urgent moments only,” Damen warns, “I can't have you waltz around threatening people wherever you go.”

“You think I need a knife for that?”

“I think, if you started adding a knife that I gave you, people would start taking their complains to me.”

“They already do that anyway,” Laurent says and it's the truth.

The feast that day is opulent because Akielons love feasting and Laurent's protests do no amount to much.

They sit with Jokaste and her sister Odalis so that Laurent must not bear the brunt of Damen's rambunctious friends who insist that he is a man now and must go hunts boars and lions because, according to them, that is what grown men do every day.

Laurent rolls his eyes a lot, probably annoyed by the noise but adoring the attention that is laved on him. There is music, of course, and people yell out requests for songs every now and again and by now Laurent knows some of them well enough to unconsciously drum his fingertips against his chalice, mimicking the melodies.

“Play _The Rapture of Teca,_ ” someone eventually demands loudly and, before the musicians can even obey, there are multiple fists banging out the rhythm against the table tops. Damen groans and laughs and joins in until the entire hall is alight with the sound of it because everyone knows and loves this song. Almost everyone, that is.

“What's happening?” Laurent asks, for once sounding openly confused, because all around them women of every age and some younger men are jumping up and clapping along.

“ _The Rapture of Teca_ ,” Damen explains, leaning in closer to speak over the sound of the fists and the actual drums, “It's a bit of a favorite on occasions such as these. The men drum and the women dance.”

“Come,” Jokaste says, grabbing Laurent by the hand and trying to tug him along as she, too, stands up, “I'll teach you.”

“Jokaste,” Damen warns, “That's hardly appropriate.”

Laurent, who had been struggling until Damen opened his mouth, stills.

“Why?” he wants to know, eyes narrowed.

“It's a dance of seduction,” Vasil calls out from across the table, “And our prince is all too easily seduced.”

Pallas has jumped up as well, causing much cheering from everyone around, and before Damen can object again Jokaste has dragged Laurent into the tempest, gesturing at him to just imitate whatever she is doing.

So he does. The only hesitance in Laurent's movement is to be found in the uncertainty of his steps, the way he follows half a second too late, watching Jokaste from the corner of his eye. Other than that, he is as graceful as his style of riding and fighting would make one suspect.

The beat is slow and steady and the crowd seems to thrum with it, everyone one entity, yet moving on their own, the singers lifting their voices over the music, telling of the girl Teca who is touching herself, knowing she is being watched, daring her secret suitor to join her.

It is torture.

At the table, Damianos is vaguely aware of his friends making teasing comments, but all he can think of is how Laurent often behaves so much more mature in comparison. He tells himself he should focus on Jokaste, on the curls of her hair and the curves of her hips. Jokaste knows what she is doing, knows how to demand the attention of every single man in the room and how to keep it. She's played this game before and she always plays to win.

Laurent does not dance like that. Laurent takes little more than moments to memorize the recurring dance steps, to understand that what makes the dance special are the unique gestures each dancer adds. While the women around him are lifting their skirts and coquettishly flashing their ankles, smoothing hands down along their bodies or twirling their hair, while Jokaste flicks her gaze around in search of an equal, someone who can hold a candle to her, Laurent does nothing as overt.

He sways his hips and flicks his wrists and adds no other embellishments. But the entire time he keeps his eyes on Damen, never once straying. He twists and twirls and whips around, his gaze immediately finding their way back.

There is nothing coy about it, nothing inviting. Evaluating, maybe. Analyzing.

Damen considers himself a man and he has led armies to earn that right, but now he finds himself brought to his knees by the realization that Laurent is not dancing for anyone else. And that he himself does not dare to look away.

When the song is over, more than a few couples disappear out of the hall to continue their dance elsewhere, much like Teca and her lover in the song do.

Laurent returns to the table, easily sinking back down onto his seat and resumes his dessert while Damen lifts his cup to his mouth in lieu of something to do. They do not acknowledge it but, spun between them like a string of silk, hangs the unspoken agreement that something profound has changed.

 

xiv

Summer comes quickly and so does the realization that Laurent's year in Akielos is nearing its end.

Damen's heart aches with the certainty that life will return to how it was before. He cannot imagine how he had once wanted to cut Laurent out of his existence as soon as possible. How Laurent had used to loathe him. How their marriage had not be a possibility but a joke. And he does not know how to voice any of that.

On a clear, warm night, Damen leads Laurent up the stairs to the highest watchtower of the palace, sending away the guards.

He has spread blankets and pillows across the hard stone, and he sets down the basket with food he has brought along before getting comfortable himself. He thinks about how he has never done anything like this before and how Laurent most certainly hasn't either.

“What are we doing here?” Laurent asks indeed, curiously glancing around.

“I want to tell you about the stars,” Damen says.

Laurent frowns, “What's so special about them?”  
“If you know them, then they will always lead you home.”

“As long as it's dark and the sky is not overcast.”

“Always nitpicking,” Damen sighs and pats the spot next to him, “Come. There are many constellations and stories to go with them.”

And so they spend hours, far above the roofs of the city, talking about constellations that were inspired by myths and sometimes myths that were inspired by constellations, with the stars gazing right back at them. As the time grows late and the night colder, the closeness of Laurent's body radiates heat against Damen's bare arm, making goosebumps prickle across his skin.

“Do you see this one?” Damen asks eventually, his fingertips tracing the imaginary outline of a boy reaching his hands heavenwards, “It is called Thanases.”

“Who is it named after?”

“A human prince that lived a long time ago,” Damen replies, “The gods were jealous of his beauty and struck him down. But, once they did, they realized the error of their ways and instead immortalized him in the stars.”

Laurent snorts, “You believe in foolish gods.”

“Not foolish,” Damen corrects with a wry smile, “Capricious. Fallible. They are much like humans in that regard.”

For a long moment, Laurent does not say anything. Damen almost convinces himself that he does not mind the silence, but then he doesn't have to anymore, because Laurent takes a small breath and begins to talk.

“There is a... a fairy tale, that my wet nurse used to tell me,” he reveals, as though admitting to a memory of his boyhood would be shameful for someone as mature as him, “Of a young king who aims to prove his worth by accomplishing a series of impossible deeds. Slaying dragons, taming the sea. Eventually, he climbs into the night sky to collect the stars like coins.”

“Does he succeed?”

“No,” gently Laurent shakes his head, “In the end, he falls in love with their light and never returns to earth.”

Damianos hums thoughtfully, “Do you think they ever met? Your king and my prince?”

“I don't know,” Laurent says, “But if they did, I'm sure they do not mind their fate too much.”

They lie like this, basking in the quiet and the night. When, after some time, Damen rolls over onto his side, his head cushioned on his folded arm, he finds Laurent already watching him. It is dark and his eyes are, too, but his skin is startlingly pale, almost glowing, like a star all of its own.

“I shall miss you,” Damen says, feeling the unconquerable urge to tell him so, though his words are so low that they would barely be audible if it weren't for how the rest of the world is asleep around them.

“Yes,” Laurent says and nothing more. For some reason, Damen finds it to be more than enough.

 

xv

The day is beautiful, the sky is clear, and Damen hates it. Rain clouds would suit his mood much better, but he tries to tell himself that this way at least Laurent is likely to have a safe journey.

They both ease into it, stoutly refusing to acknowledge it in the week before and then, down at the docks, they take their time to bid farewell to everyone else.

Jokaste and Odalis have come, as have several of Damen's men, including even Nikandros, and Laurent says his goodbyes very neatly and properly, as is expected of a prince at a foreign court.

Damen very deliberately talks to Jord, wishing him swift travel and extending an invitation for return, half-jokingly adding how he would very much like to lure him from Auguste's services because any king would be glad to have a man like Jord following him.

Jord thanks him and smiles good-naturedly and then he smiles some more and doesn't say anything until Damen has to admit defeat and face the inevitable.

Laurent has outgrown all the clothes he had brought with him when he first came here and he had never bothered to have anything similar made. Now, the newly tailored pants and jacket suit him well, but still look unfamiliar as Damen has grown so used to seeing him dressed more casually.

They stand in front of each other and, for the first time in months, there is an edge of awkwardness between them. Yet this is difference from the manner in which they had been circumspect of each other before. This is has nothing to do with mutual dislike but with the knowledge that this moment will be their last for quite some time to come.

Mentally, Damen steels himself and waves over one of the attendants who immediately brings over the farewell gift that Damen had spent many hours fretting over.

“This is for you,” he says, handing Laurent the reins of the beautiful palomino mare. She is young and headstrong, but Damen has no doubt that Laurent will be able to handle her. She also cost a small fortune and Laurent must realize this, if his wide-eyed wonder is anything to go by as he hungrily takes her in, offering her his hand to sniff and then rubbing his knuckles against the velvet skin of her nostrils. She snorts, flicks her ears, and then Laurent already seems to have made a new friend.

“What will you name her?” Damen asks.

Laurent is silent for a moment, contemplative, carefully keeping his eyes on the horse.

“Ios, I think,” he says finally.

“Then she will always carry you to victory,” Damen knows for the city of Ios has never fallen to its enemies.

Ios was also the name of an Akielon queen, widowed in war and too young for the fate that had befallen her. Her late husband's _kyroi_ had wanted her to abdicate, had tried to play her like an instrument. Yet she had refused and, when finally the armies of the war that has cost her king's life had laid siege to her city, she had taken in all the defenseless citizens and instead poisoned the wells. Many of the foreign soldiers and their horses had died like flies, and in the summer heat their decaying corpses had caused disease that wiped out the yet another portion of the army. Until, conceding defeat, the enemy had retreated and Ios had staked claim of her city once more, the city that then was renamed in her honor.

“I have a gift for you as well,” Laurent says, as though reluctant to admit it, but then Jord is already tactfully stepping over and presenting Damen with a square object wrapped in cloth.

Damen accepts it and, before he has even removed the cloth, he knows what it must be. Yet there is still a bit of a surprise to be had.

“It... it seems silly now,” Laurent says and there is some of the boy still inside of him, inexperienced and shy, “I thought maybe weapons first, but you've got so many of them already.”

Because it's a book, as Damen had already expected, but it is a book entirely filled with Laurent's fine handwriting. Damen can barely imagine how much time must have been spent on it.

“Poems,” Laurent explains, stilted, watching as Damen runs his fingers over the leather binding, “A collection of personal favorites plus some you might enjoy.”

Damen flips through the book and, true enough, he is greeted by page upon page of Akielon, Veretian, Vaskan, Patran, in addition to Akielon translations whenever necessary.

“I translated most of those myself,” Laurent sniffs, “There may be some errors, but I reckon they will go over your head anyway.”

Most of them are either re-tellings of legends or great battles and warriors, and Damen recognizes several he already knows. There are others, though, of theological and spiritual nature. Some amusing ones, some crude. He grins at those, sends a quick look at Laurent, tongue in cheek. Then he reaches the last third.

“Love poems?” he asks with a cocked brow.

“They have their merit,” Laurent hums, “I like the ones where one of them dies.”

“You are too cruel,” Damen sighs but then smiles, “Thank you, Laurent. I love it.”

He doesn't love it because he loves poetry. Or even because he suspects how much work must have gone into it. He loves it because it is such a particularly _Laurent_ gift.

It's a proof of Laurent's bookish nature, a pointed reminder of just how sharp his mind is, and a callback to their first proper conversation back in the library at Arles, when anything but thinly veiled insults had been an impossibility. Curious how much could change in a year. Curious how they had.

“Farewell, my prince,” Damen whispers and knows no other words.

Laurent is still so young; too young. But there is potential. There is promise. One day, maybe. They still had many years ahead of them.

As if in agreement to those secret thoughts, Laurent gives a curt nod. Then, seeming to war with himself for a moment, he comes to stand on his tiptoes, his body curved towards Damen.

This time, it does not come as a surprise. This time, Damen can lean into it as Laurent of Vere gives him a very shy kiss goodbye.

It's barely anything at all, but it's a true first and it happens in front of their entourage, and the tips of Damen's ears tingle as though he were a boy again himself.

One kiss per year, he thinks. He can live with that.

After that, everything is over quite quickly. The last of the cargo is stowed away, Ios the mare is brought aboard, and then Damen can only watch as Laurent stands at the ship's rail and sails off toward the open sea.

“Smitten,” Nikandros says from somewhere off to the side and Damen can't even bring himself to disagree.

 

xvi

He reads one poem per night, in the seclusion of his bedroom, out loud to better appreciate the carefully woven phrases, especially in Laurent's skillful translations. Damen imagines him sitting in his small study, painstakingly going over the verses again and again until he had whittled them to perfection.

Although they are much longer, he gets to the battle epics rather quickly, because he is already familiar with them and because the translations were not handcrafted by Laurent himself. With the others, however, he takes more time.

When he reaches the love poems, he allows himself to linger each time.

 _The Lovers of Ishtalot_ , of star-crossed lovers unwittingly dying for the other. _Ephemion's Last Stand_ , of a warrior realizing his love for his brother-in-arms when it is already too late. _And rubies, your mouth_ , greedy and seductive between the lines and by a Veretian poet Laurent probably shouldn't even know in the first place. _The dove and the deer_ , about a Vaskian queen who falls in love with an untouchable temple maid. _Delirium_ , written in one continuous line, has the speaker dizzy with lust and Damen gripping his sheets in sympathy, and he dares not think of Laurent writing down these words for him, dares not read too much into it.

_I do not eat, I do not speak, I press my lips to your lips, to your pulse, to your wrist, I do not breathe for air is not so sweet as you, between your sighs, between your thighs, the arch of your back, your valleys, I lick sweat off your skin, and dew, I chase the flavor of your sin, why pick the blossom when you can have the fruit, I hunger, I ache, I am nothing without you, no king, no slave, a mere shadow among the shade-_

Finally, on the thirty-sixth day since Laurent's departure, though it feels like so much longer than just a month, Damianos reaches the last page.

The last poem, composed in blunt Akielon words with typically Veretian twists to it, has Laurent's name written in place of the author. It bears no title, no dedication. But then again, this entire book might well be meant as one.

It's not a particularly long poem, filling just about one page with neatly curved letters, but Damen finds his chest constricting over the course of it, finds himself lingering particularly on the last few lines.

 

_The sun is the same_

_in every sky_

_and yet the horizon_

_is not._

 

_Oceans, some say,_

_may separate,_

_but know I'm just one voyage away._

 

Damianos is not a poet by any means, often has trouble figuring out the metaphors and symbolism of certain works. But even he cannot help but notice how Laurent has very deliberately included his personal work in the love section of his book.

He goes to sit by his desk, stares down at the vast expanse of blank parchment before him. And then he writes his first letter to Vere.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news, Prince Damianos of Akielos has got it bad.  
> The world-building and the romance is totally getting away from me. For some reason this 'verse is a personal challenge on how many metaphors I fit into a single scene.


	3. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long wait for a long chapter. There is a lot of stuff happening during a very short amount of time, so I hope it doesn't seem too crowded.
> 
> I also belatedly realized that Arles is nowhere near the sea, but fuck the system, canon divergent means not only that Auguste lives but that I can also split the continental plates whichever way I want to.

xvii

Damen's fall is made up of mild weather and anticipation for ships from Vere. Sometimes, they bring with them envelops that carry the royal seal and then Damen's friends hoot and holler while he just shoves them off and disappears to the privacy of his chambers.

In the beginning, their correspondence is characterized by Laurent's adherence to proper decorum and manners. Gone are his teasing tone and his love for wholly inappropriate topics in truly inappropriate moments. Instead, it is as though they are little more than acquaintances and this ink on paper nothing but a courtesy call.

 

_Prince Damianos,_

_I hope this letter finds you and your family well. I find myself in good health, though just two weeks past Auguste was hassled by a somewhat tenacious cough from which he has mostly recovered._

 

At first, Damen finds himself floored by the superficiality of the words, the absolute lack of affection. He has to pull the book of poetry from his shelf to remind himself that he had not imagined the Laurent from last year, the one who would tear at his hair at having to entertain such mindless small-talk. The one who had put a promise like fire into Damen's heart and then left to let the forest burn.

But Damen, not allowing himself to be hurt by how easily physical distance seemed to have estranged Laurent from him, just sits down to compose an answer.

 

_Dearest Laurent,_

_I thank you for your concern. I am well, apart from my left foot which a mare happened to step upon when Nikandros spooked herwith a particularly ill-timed fart._

 

Laurent, fortunately, is quick to rise to the bait.

 

_Damianos,_

_on behalf of_ _ kyros _ _Nikandros I have conferred with the royal physicist. He recommends ginger, fennel seeds and chamomile tea as a reliable treatment against stomach gas. Please send him my well wishes._

 

 

_Laurent,_

_Kyros Nikandros refuses your well wishes and instead challenges you to a duel upon your next meeting. I hope you are not neglecting you sword-fighting._

 

 

_Damen,_

_On the morrow, Auguste and I will leave for border patrol. It is my first time accompanying him, but there have been reports of bandits waylaying travelers along the mountains, so he thinks it will be as good a time as any for me to learn._

_Your lessons, it seems, will come in handy soon._

 

 

_My dear Laurent_

_Border patrol sounds exciting until you are actually spending weeks on the road and plucking various kinds of flora and fauna out off your hair and clothes at all times. Nevertheless, I am glad to see that your brother finally acknowledges as an equal. I think your year apart might have made him understand that you are nearly a man grown._

 

 

_Dear Damen,_

_Auguste and I have returned from border patrol. I did not get the chance to fight any bandits myself, though I do find that it has been a valuable lesson. Sometimes, it is easy to forget that Vere consists of more than just Arles and its forests. The past weeks have truly reminded me of how vast and wonderful our kingdom truly is._

_Nevertheless, I sometimes find myself missing Ios and it's milder climate. We've had the first snowfall, and my uncle who was on a visit to Patras will now have to spend the winter there as the sudden change in weather has made the mountain pass inaccessible._

 

 

_I am drowned in duties and responsibilities, and my father claims it is to prepare me for the throne but I believe he is just growing lazy. Perhaps he wishes to abdicate early and hopes to merely push the crown onto me as soon as possible. I managed to wrestle a promise from him though that, if I perform my tasks well, I shall be allowed to return to Arles in the spring._

_Please ask your father and brother whether they are amenable._

_Yours truly,_

_Damen_

 

Laurent does not bother with explicitly writing out whether he is looking forward to seeing Damen again, apart from sending along his father's agreement to once more welcoming Damen in Vere. But, after a year spent with Laurent personally and several months pouring over his fine handwriting, Damen has grown rather apt at reading between the lines.

 

_I wish winter would come to an end. The snow bores me and the sky, even if not overcast, is never quite as blue as the Akielon sea. I keep counting down the days to my nameday when the crocuses will finally bloom._

_Yours,_

_Laurent_

 

xviii

The gods were fickle creatures indeed if, after centuries of animosity, they made it so that an Akielon prince would one day end up looking forward to spending time at the Veretian court.

But here Damianos is, strong winds in their sails and carrying them across the sea at a pace that is still not quite quick enough for his liking.

He shouldn't be this eager, he thinks, shouldn't be this obvious about it. But he had practically begged his father for permission to spend another summer in Arles, and Theomedes had relented easily and with a knowing smile.

“Yes,” he had said, “Go meet your foster brother.”

It had been a pointed reminder of how, throughout the winter, Damianos had still insisted on how he and Laurent were only technically engaged and that nothing was settled yet. Old habits died hard, after all, even if everyone had oft rolled their eyes at his tiring vehemence.

It was true, though. Much could change in the course of half a year. Maybe Laurent had outgrown his childish affections for Damen which had been rather fragile to begin with. Maybe they would be able to remain friends but never to turn it into anything more than that.

Damen had promised himself that he would arrive without any expectations regarding Laurent's attitude toward him. The boy had always been unpredictable and Damen deemed it best to not get his hopes up.

His determination, however, is tried as soon as they make it into the harbor and step on land.

Once more, the princes of Vere have come to welcome him, side by side, just as when Damen had first met them all of two years ago. Who would have thought that Auguste's harebrained idea would one day land them here?

“Prince Auguste,” Damen greets the crown prince first, ever aware of the proper decorum the Veretians like to insist on, “It is a joy to finally meet you again.”

“Likewise, Prince Damianos,” Auguste returns courteously, but then his gaze is already slyly sliding over to where his brother is more or less patiently waiting.

Laurent has grown a couple of inches, Damen notes, and he stands almost as tall as Auguste now, though he is still clearly more boy than man. Yet the months of separation now make Damen very aware of every single change, of the blue-blooded pallor that has returned to Laurent's eyelids and how his hair is tied into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck.

“My prince,” Damen says, “It's been too long.”

“I welcome you to my birthplace, Heir of Theomedes,” Laurent says in flawless Akielon, coyly glancing up between his lashes.

And just like that it's as though no time has passed at all. A warm smile spreads across Damen's face, but there is another, more subtle, heat deep in his belly.

For a long moment, the two of them simply look at each other. There is no kiss, not in front of Auguste, and Damen feels just a little bit bad for wishing they were alone.

“I brought you some oranges,” Damen says, because it seems like the most innocuous thing to say, “And a cook who knows how to make orange cakes.”

Laurent's smile is the tiniest thing but it's there if you know where to look for it. And Damen does know.

“Then we best get them all to the kitchens,” Laurent says, “I would love something sweet for dinner.

 

ixx.

Laurent, despite Damen's initial starstruck impression, seems more austere than he did back in Akielos. He's tightly laced up again, in dark velvets and fine brocade, holding himself with impeccable grace as he shows Damen to the quarters he already had been using during his first visit two summers ago.

While once upon a time Damen had thought him a flighty forest sprite, he is now as frost upon a young leaf, cool on the outside but with promise of spring lying just underneath the surface.

As he follows Laurent along the corridors, he allows himself to fall behind by just half a step, allows himself to let his gaze trail over the intricately woven laces that run down the narrow line of Laurent's back. Damen finds himself struck by the thought of how it would be to actually undo all those same laces, tugging them free from their eyelets and pushing the smooth velvet off of Laurent's shoulders to get to the silken skin underneath. He does not fool himself in to believing that he wouldn't make a terrible mess of it, and yet he dreams of that slow sensuality, of undressing Laurent bit by bit. Of messing up that strict perfection.

Damen takes a deep breath and wonders whether they would need that chaperon after all.

Laurent is sixteen now, still too young in prudence's eyes, but it's not like Damen's fantasies are being fueled by good reasons.

“I hope you'll find everything to your satisfaction,” Laurent tells him when he leaves him to rest and freshen up after the long journey.

“I do,” Damen says. His gaze lingers a little too long.

But, then again, so does Laurent's.

 

A bath, a nap, and a small snack bring a greater ability to show restraint. Dinner brings more surprises.

Damen had not noticed before, distracted by his other observations, but much like Laurent, Auguste, whom Damen hadn't seen in even longer, has changed as well. The most overt part is that he had cut his hair short.

“Less of a hassle in the winter,” Auguste laughs when he is questioned, “It takes too long to dry and even longer to make it look presentable.”

Yet Damen cannot help but take quiet notice of the dark shadows that are painted underneath Auguste's eyes, wonders what might be keeping him so occupied. There are no pressing political matters on a larger scale that Damen is aware of, but the Veretians in their pride have always been extremely circumspect of letting news about their own home-made struggles make it across the borders.

As a friend Damen wants to ask, but as a prince he knows that it is not quite his place.

He also cannot help but notice how Laurent and Auguste seem to have grown even closer. Sometimes, while they converse, the brothers will throw each other looks. There is no lull in conversation, so it's almost imperceptible, but Damen still can tell that there are a thousand words that go unspoken between them. Unspoken but not misunderstood.

So it was not just the border patrol that had made Auguste view his little brother as an equal or at least as something more than a child. Damen just cannot quite figure out what it is.

He tries to think nothing of it at first, but then it turns out that he is not the only one who thinks so.

“They are hiding something,” Jokaste notes idly, under the guise of plucking at the seams of her dress.

While Nikandros had opted to remain in Akielos this time, Jokaste had insisted on coming along instead. She claimed she wanted to improve her Veretian and that she wished to see young Laurent again, but everyone could tell that she was merely hoping to expand her territory. Damen had tried to tell her of the Veretians dislike of out-of-wedlock male-female relationships, but she had turned up her nose at him.

“I'll just have to marry one of them then,” she had said confidently and, upon reconsideration, added, “And there are always deviants.”

So now she was here and she was fluent in the language of intrigue which Damen could barely understand a few words of.

“Do not press for answers,” Damen warns her, “We are guests here.”

“My prince,” she tells him slyly, “We do not press for answers. We stumble upon them in opportune moments.”

And then she turns to Auguste and politely asks him to point out the various dignitaries in the dining hall.

“I have no memory for faces,” she claims with an embarrassed smile, “And an even worse one for names.”

“Of course,” Auguste says in mild surprise, “Please, feel free to stop me if I start to bore you.”

“Oh,” she says, “You could never.”

Across the table, Laurent cocks an eyebrow at Damen. Damen, however, can do nothing but shrug.

 

xx.

While Jokaste attempts to unravel the mysteries of the Veretian court, the answer – or at least part of it – presents itself earlier than expected.

Ironically, it happens as Laurent and Damen are having a sparring match. Damen has to keep his guard up because he had almost forgotten how Laurent's style of fighting ignored any code of honor. It's a challenge but also a welcome reprieve from making nice with the various nobles as is expected of both of them. If they are to reign together one day, they need learn how to leave a good impression on people and forge connections. As of now, the nobles were King Aleron's subjects and, potentially, his opponents. One day they would be Auguste's and, to a lesser degree, Damen and Laurent's.

Just when Laurent shows the first signs of tiring, his footwork getting a bit sloppy, Jord joins them on the field.

“My prince,” he says. His voice is quiet, but there is an edge to it. Immediately Laurent raises his hand to signal an end of the match. Both he and Damen lower their weapons.

“What is it, Jord?” Laurent says and he, too, sounds just the faintest bit alarmed.

“Your brother wishes to speak to you,” Jord tells him.

And there should be nothing to it, no worry, no unease, yet Laurent's shoulder tense almost imperceptibly.

“I will see him at once,” he says and Jord gives a tight nod.

“Laurent,” Damen says and nothing more. Laurent turns to look at him, considering.

“You might as well join me,” he decides at length, “This pertains to you, too.”

Damen does not understand what that means. He tries to make sense of it as they set aside their practice swords and make their way back into the palace proper. Both Jord and Laurent march along the hallways with exact steps, the sounds of it echoing off the walls. But whereas the soldier is obvious in Jord's gait, Laurent walks as if the soles of his feet alone could intimidate the earth into doing his bidding.

His low ponytail brushes against the back of neck, single strands catching on the sweat damp skin, but other than that he is the epitome of poise and perfection. If you knew him, however, could tell how unsettled he truly was.

The answer as to why presents itself once Jord has led them to Auguste's chambers. Up to this point Damen is naive still, merely expects some minor inconvenience, something only Veretians would get their feathers ruffled over. Then he sees the blood.

“What on earth-,” he gasps.

On the floor is a man, face-down and motionless. Judging by the amount of blood in a puddle underneath him, he must be dead.

“Auguste,” Laurent says, as though the sight of a dead body does not faze him much. His eyes are only on his brother. “Are you alright?”

“I've been better,” Auguste allows. He sits sunken down on an armchair. His face is ashen, his hair disheveled. “But I am unharmed. Mostly.”

He lifts his left arm to reveal a shallow cut along the biceps. It's nothing much to worry about, but Laurent immediately grabs a pitcher of wine of a table, liberally pouring in onto the wound. It soaks the white fabric of Auguste's tunic, but most of it trickles down to the floor where it joins the blood, red veins reaching out across the dark wood floor.

“Someone attacked you,” Damen concludes. It's obvious but his disbelief still makes that reality difficult to grasp. “In your own chambers.”

“Yes,” Auguste nods; then he motions fore Jord, “Show him the blade, please.”

Jord nods and pulls a long jagged dagger from within his jacket, handing it hilt-first to Damen.

Damen accepts it, staring at it with wide eyes.

“Is that an Akielon dagger?” Auguste asks. It does not sound like an accusation, just like the prince is honestly trying to ascertain facts that he already knows. So Damen curbs his instinctual denial and remains just as calm.

“Yes,” he says, weighing the weapon in his hands, “And of good craftsmanship, too.”

Few would be able to afford such a blade. It was typically given to young adolescents upon some sort of great achievement, a boar they killed or a girl they bedded, whatever happened first. Nikandros had one. Damen did, too. It had been given to him by his father when he had first managed to beat Kastor in a sword fight.

“But that man is not Akielon,” Damen adds, his gaze dropping to the corpse. He can't see the man's face but his coloring is far too light. That observation would not absolve all the blame but it was as good a place as any to start.

“I know this was not your doing,” Auguste says as though reading his thoughts, “Nor that of your countrymen. This was obviously not just an attempt on my life, but also a ploy to put the blame onto you.”

“But why?” Damen cannot help but ask. He feels like a boy. The world and all its intricacies make little sense to him.

“To destroy the pact between Vere and Akielos,” Auguste says with certainty, “To sever your engagement to Laurent. To make us go back to war as though peace had never happened.”

When voiced like that, it does sound rather plausible. And yet there is still much confusion left.

“But who would want such a thing,” Damen wonders, “And of your own people, too?”

“There are many,” Auguste knows, “Some more persistent than others.”

He exchanges another of those unnerving looks with Laurent then, a silent conversation that Damen is not privy to.

“Has something of this nature happened before?” Damen wants to know. The three other men seem entirely too blasé about the whole ordeal.

“Occasionally,” Auguste hums, “Their attempts are getting bolder but also more inelegant. It's hard to believe that they honestly believed this one might come to fruition.”

Veretians, Damen decides, are absolutely mad dogs. Maybe Nikandros had been right after all.

“Why is the king not raising security measures then?” he asks, “The palace-”

“The king does not know,” Laurent cuts in, “And you will not tell him.”

Damen whips around to stare at him, but Laurent's eyes are diamonds.

“But-,” he tries anyway.

“This is Veretian business,” Laurent tells him, “And we will keep it that way.”

“It is my business if they try to drag Akielos into it,” Damen says, fiery, “It is my business if they try to kill my friend, my future brother-in-law. It is my business because you asked me to come along to see this.”

“I brought you here because you need to learn,” Laurent says and he is all ice, “You need to understand.”  
“Damen, please,” Auguste says, “Promise to not tell our father. It may seem inadvisable to you, but we have our reasons. This... is for the best.”

His face is earnest, his voice tired. This is not the first time this has happened. Auguste knew more than Damen did. And though Damen does not appreciate being kept out of the loop, he has to trust the brothers' judgment. Sometimes, that's how friendships worked.

“I promise,” he says, even though the words are ash in his mouth.

 

If he were honest with himself, Damen does not want to see Laurent for the rest of the day. Laurent, of course, has other plans.

“Come,” he says as though speaking to a dog and then leads him down into the courtyard. Damen follows, reluctant.

Laurent waves over a stable boy and gives curt orders to have their horses prepared. It's not overly surprising. The prince had always favored going for a ride when he needed to clear his mind.

It doesn't take long for the stable master himself to bring out a stallion for Damen as well as Laurent's horse. He smiles when he sees that it is the mare named Ios which he had given Laurent as a parting gift on their last day in Akielos.

“She is serving you well, then?” he asks, quiet pride in his words.

“She is,” Laurent agrees as he swings himself up into the saddle. For a moment, he stills. “Orlant knows his way around horses,” he says then, “He told me that, going by her stature and her coloring, she must be a mixed breed.”

“Her parents were a Veretian stallion and an Akielon mare,” Damen says, “She combines grace with endurance. Like you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Laurent snorts and then tugs at the reins to make Ios turn towards the gates.

“My prince,” the stable master says in warning. He does not sound too adamant about it, though, probably used to these kinds of escapades.

“Leave us,” Laurent says simply.

“The king will not be happy about you riding out alone again.”

“I'm not alone,” Laurent replies, sending a quick look at Damen. “Let's ride,” he says and they do.

They ride across the plains and the fields and up to the outskirts of the forest until their horses are covered in sweat. Only then does Laurent pull the reins and jump out of the saddle. He does not bother to tether Ios somewhere. The mare is trained well enough to not run away, but Damen is not so sure about his own steed.

He slings the reins of the bridle around a low-hanging branch, gives the horse a pat on the rump and then turns around to where Laurent is pressing his back against the trunk of a tree, leaning his head back and breathing deeply. Looking for liberation.

Damen takes a step but then stops himself. He is not sure whether he is welcome and, especially in Laurent's state of agitation, he does not wish to overstep his boundaries.

Laurent seems to think differently, watching Damen with thoughtful eyes.

“Come closer,” he says, and Damen does.

The sparse grass tickles his toes through his sandals and then Laurent reaches out, running his fingertips over Damen's collarbone. Damen's nostrils flare.

“Closer,” Laurent demands until there are merely a few inches separating them.

Suddenly, there is a skin-warm blade pressed against Damen's pulse. He stills.

From this angle, he cannot see the weapon but he knows that it must be the stiletto that he had gifted Laurent last year, on the day when something minuscule had changed between them. Laurent's eyes, however, are indefinitely sharper.

“You trust too easily,” he warns calmly, “One day, someone you love will offer you their hand and stab you with the other.”

“But not this day,” Damen knows.

“No,” Laurent agrees, “Not this day.”

He pulls pack, smoothly sheathing his stiletto once more.

For a long moment, Damen looks at him.

“I wish you weren't so jaded,” he says, “I wish you wouldn't use your smiles as swords.”

“You are a little too late for that,” Laurent says and, as though to prove a point, smiles.

 

xxi.

Two weeks later, the king's brother who had been off on a visit to Fortaine returns to the court. He brings with him a number of presents and two deer he shot on the way, and subsequently a small feast is arranged for the evening.

Laurent who had loosened up a little since the attempt on Auguste's life is back to being sullen. Damen has trouble pinpointing the reason, but he suspects it must have something to do with being surrounded with so many people once more. Laurent had never been a friend of crowds in the first place; knowing that among those people might be some who wished his family ill certainly did not improve his mood.

At another table, a group of pets has gotten up to entertain their masters with a rather vulgar sort of dance. It involved a lot of bending and spreading and touching each other. In fact, calling it a dance would be gracious. The Veretians titter and laugh, making small-talk with each other while their eyes keep straying back to their half-naked pets.

Damen looks away. He does not care for having his appetite spoiled.

Unwillingly, he finds himself reminded of how, little over a year ago, Laurent had danced for him. No naked skin, no coy smiles. Just Laurent, the beat of the music and a song of fulfillment. He wonders whether, one day, he will get to see him dance again.

Do distract himself from his somewhat indecent thoughts, he tries to merely talk to Laurent instead, though it proves to be a challenging endeavor. Their conversations have been stilted since that afternoon at the edge of the woods, since Auguste has slit his would-be assassins throat and sworn Damen to secrecy.

Damen finds himself missing the easy companionship of Nikandros and their friends, the kind that consisted of wine and sordid stories but that had them risking their lives for each other in battle. In Vere, it's as though betrayal might lurk around every corner.

And Damen trusts Laurent and Auguste, but he does no longer feel the same ease around them as he used to. There is something else going on, something bigger, and yet they treat him like a child who might ruin the surprise if he were told any of the details.

Unexpectedly, someone else comes to his aid, though.

The king's brother approaches their table with a winning smile and an inviting gesture.

“Prince Damianos,” he says cordially, “We haven't had much chance to talk yet. I apologize for my rudeness.”

“You are a busy man and therefore forgiven,” Damen tells him, “I hear you have been traveling a lot.”

“I have,” the man agrees, “Longer than I was hoping to, to be honest. The Patran winter kept me behind the mountains for too long. And after that I needed a little vacation.”

“You went to Fortaine, did you not?” Damen asks. He has been trying to brush up on the names of the surrounding fortresses and those who hold them. It was in expectation of becoming son-in-law to the king, but also because he felt like he needed to be prepared in case if any other intrigues.

“Yes, councilor Guion has a son just a little younger than Laurent,” the king's brother explains, “I'm sure they would get on well. He would make a fine squire. I actually invited him to court to see whether the life here suits him.”

Laurent viciously stabs the meat on his plate with his fork, obviously less than enthused by the idea.

“Squiring does make men out of boys,” Damen agrees.

In Akielos they followed similar practices, and he had hated and loved every minute of his own time attending a young _kyros_. Alcibiades had been a beautiful man and he had instructed Damen in more than just the art of fighting. Even when Damen grew older and eventually left his service, their friendship remained a deep one, different from his rambunctious brotherhood with Nikandros, as weathered and mature as only old lovers can be. Alcibiades had fallen in one of the battles leading up to Marlas, though, and it had been one of the reasons why Damen had so resented the idea of a peace treaty.

He frowns, displeased by being reminded of his grief at such a moment. Maybe Laurent's uncle notices because he makes a point of moving the conversation into a different direction.

“Fortaine is actually well known for its vineyards,” he tells Damen, “Though they don't much distribute it anywhere but in Vere. I've brought some along with me. Would you care for a taste?”

“Of course,” Damen says, never one to turn down a drink. It is also the surest way to bring back some levity to his thoughts.

So the king's brother waves his pet closer, a dark-haired, green-eyed beauty, and has him pour three goblets of wine, one for Laurent, too, though the prince only accepts it reluctantly.

“A toast,” his uncle proposes, “To our continued relations.”

So they toast and clink their goblets. It's good wine and Damen drinks deeply. From the corner of his eye, he can see how Laurent takes a sniff of the wine and only wets his lips a little. He has never had much of a taste for alcohol and Damen had suspected it being due to him still having a child's palate, but considering that Laurent is older now it might be that it is just his dislike for losing control that keeps him from indulging too much.

Damen has barely lowered his goblet that the pet is already there to top it off again, and then he continues to talk to the king's brother about expanding trading routes and rising export rates.

Eventually, Laurent's uncle excuses himself to talk to some other people, and Damen settles back to watch the people around the hall. His gaze keeps straying back to where Jokaste is talking to Auguste.

Damen would think it another of her perfectly polished seduction attempts, but she keeps making animated gestures and when Auguste says something she objects immediately. Once, she opens her mouth just as she is lifting her goblet to her lips and a bit of wine spills down her chin instead. She wipes it away with an impatient wrist, but some drops must travel along her neck and into her cleavage because that is where Auguste's eyes follow them.

Damen smiles to himself. It's an unexpected development but not an unwelcome one. Jokaste might profit from someone who challenges her in ways she had not foreseen. Auguste is not a schemer by any means, but he is witty and eloquent. They would keep each other on their toes, that much is certain.

They'd be a lovely sight, too, all that blonde hair and their lithe bodies, her skin just a shade darker than his, and it's easy to imagine Auguste powerfully moving between her thighs, his buttocks-

Ah. Damen stops himself. Imagining his fiancé's brother having sex is probably not the best idea.

And yet it is difficult to rein his thoughts in once more. He does not blush easily and it is fortunately not very visible with is dark coloring, but now his cheeks are distinctly hot. He can feel himself growing aroused, even, and that should not happen just because of some pretty ideas.

He wipes a palm across his face and then reaches for the water pitcher. Maybe he should lay off the wine for now; it must have been stronger than expected, though it had been exceptionally sweet and flavorful.

“Damen,” Laurent says from next to him, “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” Damen claims, yet when he turns his head he is hit by sudden dizziness. He steadies himself against the table and, when he can see clearly again, he lifts his gaze to Laurent.

Laurent who is more beautiful than Auguste and Jokaste combined, whose lips are red and who looks at Damen with such undivided attention that he might think himself a god.

“Dammit,” Laurent curses under his breath. There is a furrow on his brow, but it just makes him more lovely. It gives life to a kind of perfection that might otherwise be mistaken for a statue.

“Laurent,” Damen says. His voice sounds faraway in his ear, as though he had spoken underwater.

“Damen,” Laurent says urgently. His hand has come up to fist in the front of Damen's _chiton_ , pulling him closer. “Damen, kiss me.”

It sounds like the kind of good idea that will turn into a bad idea but, in his current state of mind, Damen cannot find anything wrong with that.

So he kisses him, first on the lips and then, angling his head to the side, opening Laurent's mouth with his, pushing his tongue in, running it along the back of Laurent's teeth, before daring to go further, finding Laurent's tongue in turn. And they kiss like they spar, with Damianos trying to be bold but courteous, while Laurent does not hesitate to fight dirtily.

He puts a hand to Damen's naked knee and then lets it slide up till it rests against the inside of his thigh. Damen's cock twitches in his loincloth and he gives a low moan.

A second later, Laurent is gone.

“Come,” he says, having risen from his seat and offering Damen his hand, “Let's go.”

“Where to?” Damen asks, though he would follow him anywhere.

“My chambers,” Laurent says, and so they leave together.

 

xxi

The next day, Damen wakes feeling slow and sluggish. It's not the ringing headache and nausea of too many cups of wine and he finds himself vaguely confused by that. And anyway, he did not have much to drink and he can handle his liquor, so he wonders what else could have affected him like that.

He blearily remembers the feast and the polite chatter and then Laurent appeared and everything got a little hazy. Damen frowns, blinks, pushes his curly fringe out of his face and rolls over in bed.

“You are awake,” Laurent says as though he himself had been for a long time.

Damen does not quite fall off the mattress but it's a near thing. He holds on to the sheets and tries to make sense of what happened, how Laurent could have ended up here in bed with him.

Laurent kissed him. Laurent kissed him and that he knows, that he could never forget. But everything else is a blur.

Damen's heart is racing. His previously phlegmatic blood pumps through his veins, sending his thoughts into chaos.

They didn't. They couldn't have. He knows this, but he also knows that underneath the sheets he is naked, just as Laurent must be naked, and his body is aching all over but not in exactly unpleasant ways.

“Laurent,” he croaks, asking for an answer, but hoping for a lie.

In that moment, the door bursts open.

This time, Damen startles so badly that he does fall out of the bed. His tailbone aches from the impact, but that's the least of his worries.

A group of six men swarms into the room, immediately assessing the situation. By their insignia Damen can tell that they are the men of the king's brother.

“Prince Damianos of Akielos,” one of them says and for a Veretian he is unusually unperturbed by Damen's nudity, “I hereby accost you for indecent behavior and improper conduct with Prince Laurent.”

Too many things have happened in the past minute for Damen to really make sense of anything at all. He only knows that he is in deep, deep trouble. The denial is more instinctual than anything else, like a boy caught red-handed when stealing food from the pantry.

“We didn't do anything,” he says. He thinks. He cannot _know_ because he has never had a gap in his memory like this.

But his claim goes ignored.

“Dress him,” the head of the group instructs the rest, “We can't have a barbarian parading around the throne room naked.”

Damen does not resist.

 

Everything happens very quickly then. Veretians do not care about sex outside of wedlock, as long as it is kept between same-sex couples. However, pre-marital sex is a different matter if the deed is done between spouses. Even if it is between same-sex couples.

It's all quite confusing and frankly, idiotic. But it is the law and Damen has broken it. And, more than that, he has dishonored the pact and defiled the prince.

He is brought to the king and made to kneel, an act of humiliation considering he is royalty himself, but that is the least of his problems now.

To make things worse, Auguste is present as well, standing by his father's side, arms crossed in front of his chest. Damen resists the urge to bow his head in shame.

He also does not allow his eyes to follow Laurent who strides into the room and quickly makes his way up to the throne. A hassled servant is following him, trying to properly tie the laces at his back. It's another grim reminder of how, mere minutes ago, the prince had been naked and in bed with the heir of Akielos.

And then it begins. Damen is not quite sure what to expect. A trial maybe, or the farce of one. Perhaps he will be lucky and they will only annul the engagement and send him on his way. Perhaps they'll behead him. Perhaps they'll declare war. It's difficult to tell.

Damen has known Aleron to be an austere king but a kind man. Since their initial meeting at Marlas, this is merely the first time Damen has truly been confronted with the former.

At Marlas, he had been given Laurent. Today, he would lose him.

Aleron's face is as clouds before a thunder storm, dark and yet deceptively calm.

“Have you touched my son?” he asks plainly. The words seem to echo of the tall walls.

Damen clenches his fists. He wants to speak the truth, but it is not within his grasp. So he settles for the closest thing.

“I... I do not recall.”

If Aleron is surprised or outraged by that reply, he does not show it.

“My brother tells me that this morning you were found in Laurent's chambers and, what's more, in his bed. Does that rejuvenate your memory?”

Nervously, Damen licks his lips.

“I can account for this morning,” he says with care, “And for last evening. But not for the night that lay in between.”

“You would use your drunk stupor as an excuse?”

“I offer neither excuse nor justification,” Damen says, “Merely what little I have: a sincere apology and my deepest regrets.”

Regrets are all he has now. The thought that he has taken Laurent, that he has potentially forced himself upon him turns his stomach. And he knows himself, he knows he's been rough with slaves before, even if they were willing. Laurent would not have known how to defend himself, might not have wanted to cause a scandal, might have just gone along with it and-

“Father,” Laurent says suddenly. He has shooed the servant away, his laces still half-undone, his hair a mess. And he must mean well, but his appearance might just be Damen's death sentence.

“Father, listen to me,” he pleads nevertheless, “You misunderstand. It wasn't his fault-”

“Laurent,” Aleron says gently, touching a palm to Laurent's cheek, “You are confused. What he did to you-”

“I wanted it,” Laurent insists, “I- I seduced him. And I drugged him.”

Damen's head jerks up. Why would Laurent-

“Chalis,” Aleron says slowly. He looks over at Damen, as though trying to find proof, dilated pupils, labored breath. “But why on earth would you-”

“I love him, father,” Laurent says, a tremble to his voice, “I do not wish to be parted from him. He told me he would rather hold off the wedding for years to come. But I cannot bear it, I want to be his husband now.”

The world is spinning. Maybe there truly is some chalis left in his system. And yet. And yet Damen can tell that there must be more to it.

He would almost believe Laurent's words, almost wants to believe them. But he knows Laurent to be a good actor - and to be much more composed when it comes to his true feelings. This is nothing but a script he must have composed in his head on his way to the throne room. And King Aleron is his audience.

For a long, long moment, the King of Vere is completely silent, merely looking at his youngest son's desperate face. Then, he slowly turns away.

“I apologize, Prince Damianos,” Aleron says evenly. The storm has thundered. The clouds are bereft. “Unexpectedly, it seems that you were the one wronged in this scenario. There are no words to apologize. My son will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary.”

And just like after a storm, the tension in the air has left. All that's left is damp soggy earth and a lingering darkness.

“There is no need,” Damen hears himself say, “I wish it had happened under different circumstances. But I take no offense in his actions. He is my fiancé.”

King Aleron looks surprised. His back is very straight.

“You still wish to uphold the engagement?” he clarifies.

“Of course. Akielos does not follow the same conventions as Vere,” Damen says, “So let us not throw away two years of commitment for one thoughtless night.”

Aleron frowns, “I welcome your leniency. But there is still the matter of propriety in the eyes of our people.”

And this, finally, is what makes Auguste speak up for the first time.

“Have them marry right away then,” he says and everyone turns to stare at him. Absurdly, Damen finds himself reminded of that day in the tent when Auguste had first proposed this reckless scheme.

But it worked once, did it not? It might work again.

“Laurent wants to marry Damen now, Damen wanted to marry Laurent eventually, we want them to marry to avoid a scandal,” Auguste explains, “It's the easiest solution.”

“That-,” Aleron says but does not get very far.

“Yes,” Laurent says quickly, “Yes.”

“Yes,” Damen agrees.

He does not lose his head that day, but his fate is sealed anyway.

 

xxii

Once the decision has been made, everyone descends into madness.

Damen is not even given the chance to speak to either Laurent or Auguste once more, before he is put on a ship and sent back to Ios.

Once there, he is expected to ready everything for his upcoming nuptials and that brings its fair share of problems with it. Royal weddings were already outlandish enough, but it would be even worse now that everyone would feel the need to compete with Vere.

There is also the small matter of having to explain everything to his father.

In the beginning, Theomedes is somewhat cross with him, as is Nikandros. Less than Damen's disgrace, they lament their own failure to prevent him from committing any social blunders. Nikandros especially seems to blame himself for not having accompanied Damen to Arles in order to keep an eye on him.

It is Jokaste who explains matters to them, outlining how starstruck Laurent had been with Damen upon their reunion, how Damen had remained steadfast in his insistence upon delaying their union, and how the boy eventually must have grown desperate enough to ply his fiancé with chalis. It's a horribly exaggerated account of things, one that no one who actually knows Laurent would believe, but eventually everyone accepts it.

Anger quickly turns into exasperation but no one quite seems to grasp the severity of the situation. As Akielos is so lenient in regards to sexual relationships of all kinds, they do not understand that their prince's cock had almost led them into ruin.

Then there is the confusion about what Laurent's official title is to be and it causes quite some discussion among various advisers.

They've had ruling queens in the past whose husbands were considered consorts, but the specific Akielon term does not apply because Damianos is neither crowned yet nor a woman. It would also be an insult to eventually start referring to Laurent as the queen, though Damen imagines he would be quietly amused by all the trouble he is indirectly causing with this conundrum.

In the end, it is Theomedes who comes up with a term, a word that is put together out of the roots for left hand, originally a military term for a second in command, while using an ending that is used as an endearment between spouses. The king is incredibly proud of himself and Damen doesn't have the heart to tell him that it sounds slightly confusing and as though the leader of an army were fucking one of his captains on the side.

Still, it is better than nothing, and out of the Veretians the only one who might be able to deduce the questionable origin of the word would be Laurent himself.

A courtier from Arles had been sent along to organize the wedding with Veretian standards. They quickly run into a wall, though, when Damen is told that one of the traditions is the consummation of the marriage under witnesses' eyes.

“This is still the Akielon court,” he insists, “We are getting married because the deed has been done. Why do you need more confirmation?”

Other than that, he lets them prepare whatever they want. There is one other demand he makes, namely that there will be no slaves serving the king's table. He cannot entirely ban them from the feast, but he does wish to accommodate Laurent at least in that regard.

Before he knows it, two months have passed and summer solstice is upon them. The longest day of the year brings with it sails on the horizon and familiar starburst banners.

Laurent comes across the sea as the prince of Vere. And he will stay as Akielon's future king.

 

xxiii

The entirety of the royal family of Vere arrives in the Akielon capital. It's a historic first.

A procession is led by King Aleron, down from the harbor and up to the palace. The starburst banners are carried through the streets for an occasion other than conquest and the citizens strew flower petals to declare them welcome.

Laurent is riding on his mare Ios, his blue cape draped over her haunches. The golden circlet upon his brow glistens in the midday sun. It's startlingly different from when he had left last fall, a boy not yet at the cusps of manhood. He's a prince now, no doubt, and royalty is in his veins.

Damianos meets him upon the marble steps of the palace and undoes the clasps of his cape. The blue fabric falls from his shoulders, a symbolical denouncement of his forefathers' colors. They do not speak. Even if he wanted to, Damianos finds himself struck silent by Laurent's brutal beauty.

He takes Laurent's hand and begins to lead him up the stairs. At their backs, the people cheer.

There will be songs written about this moment. They will talk of love and fate and the gods' favor. They will lie.

 

xxiv.

Much like Damen's hasty departure from Arles, Laurent's arrival in Ios is marked by how little they see of each other.

Damen recalls some Veretian make-belief of spouses not being allowed to lay eyes on each other before their wedding, lest they risk bad luck, but he cannot help but think that this is mostly his own fault.

In the short shared moments, Laurent had seemed so strangely intangible. Yes, Laurent had changed since his year in Ios, but he had also changed in the two months since their wedding had been announced.

Such a short amount of time could not change someone to such a degree. Which meant that the only explanation lay within their ill-advised night together.

Damen wonders whether Laurent regrets his decision to drug him, whether their wedding was happening too quickly after all. He wonders whether he had hurt Laurent that night, whether Laurent had underestimated the effects of chalis. He wonders whether their marriage will be doomed from the beginning.

 

It must be the biggest and most significant marriage of the century. Kingdoms have not be united like this in quite some time. The fact that the entirety of both royal families are attending is also quite spectacular.

“I will not miss my son's wedding,” Aleron had said pointedly, after mentioning that his brother had advocated it against it.

The feast, therefore, will be elaborate, but the ceremony itself is a rather straightforward thing. Damen has no patience for outdated words and dull prayers.

Instead, after calling on the gods and asking for their blessing, the high priestess merely wraps a length of red silk around the princes' hands, tying them together, Damen's left and Laurent's right so they would be able to sit side by side. They would remain like this for the rest of the evening, and then Damen would tie it to the outside of their bedroom door so that no one would accidentally disturb their wedding night, an Akielon tradition that had sounded very exciting and bold when he had been a boy but that now seems almost vulgar to him.

The silk whispers across the vulnerable skin of his wrist, binding his pulse to Laurent's. The priestess speaks of their hearts beating in tandem now, of their hearts one day ceasing at the same time. She speaks of the breath of life, too, and how it is exchanged between lovers.

Damen almost misses his cue and then it takes him a moment until he can make himself move. Laurent, though, looks at him, very calmly. It's all the encouragement, all the challenge Damen will get.

He leans in, ducks his head, and chastely kisses Laurent on the lips. Four kisses now, four kisses that Damen remembers. One for surprise, one for goodbye, one for lust, and one for forever.

He pulls back, lingers, a mere centimeter between their lips, before he actually straightens up again.

They are properly married now, but the ceremony is not yet over.

Laurent kneels and with poised fingers the high priestess removes his golden circlet. Damen, in turn, then crowns him with a laurel wreath made of gold, officially recognizing him as a member of Akielon royalty and making Laurent second in line to the throne until Damen produced an heir. If he still believed Vere were out to get Akielos under their control, this might be it.

Laurent rises with all the grace of a young god and Damen knows he never stood a chance anyway.

 

xxv.

Laurent eats gracefully, even with only his left hand at his disposal. Damen, having to accept all the well-wishes and presents they receive, repeatedly has to stop himself from speaking with his mouth full.

Among the first influx of guests is Laurent's uncle. He has a servant deliver a few rare books he acquired during his travels, doubtlessly intended more for Laurent. It's a thoughtful present but something about the exchange is strange.

They look at each other for a long moment. Then Laurent moves his hand so it is resting on top of Damen's.

“Thank you, uncle,” he says and offers a small smile.

“I am happy for you, Laurent,” the king's brother says. He sounds like it, too, but for some reason Damen finds himself losing his appetite.

Kastor is next, with a sullen expression and then a strain to his smile, even as he welcomes Laurent to the family.

“My brother needs good council,” he tells Laurent, “I pray you will guide him well.”

Then it's a long throng of Veretian nobles and Theomedes' _kyroi_.

“You kiss like a maiden,” Makedon tells Damen bluntly, “I hope you don't fuck like one.”

“He doesn't,” Laurent says and Makedon's eyes widen a little because everyone knows the wedding had been set so suddenly due to their illicit night together but so far no one had outright acknowledged it.

“Always has to have the last word, that one,” Makedon grumbles and stomps away while Damianos carefully coughs up the olive he had nearly choked on.

After that, the evening is surprisingly pleasant. The food is good, the wine plenty, and the entertainments entertaining. There's Patran fire-spitting, Akielon drums, a group of singers from across the sea, white patterns painted onto their dark faces. A dozen half-naked women perform a Vaskian fertility dance that nearly has Damen laugh out loud because no matter how pleased the gods were by the performance, Laurent would not end up overly fertile either way.

Eventually, Makedon gets out the griva again and Theomedes challenges Aleron to a drinking game. Damen takes it as the unspoken permission to finally make his excuses.

Were this any other night of him leaving a feast early, he would claim other commitments, of having to rise with the sun for whatever reason, but now his excuse is his husband tied to him by a red string.

They leave the hall, under whistles and cheers and provocative comments. Damen does not rise to any of them.

In the past two months, he had dismissed all slaves from his service, finding them other masters, but now he sends away the attending servants as well. When they are gone, he loosens the silk from their wrists and puts it in its proper place at the door frame. Then he turns the key in the lock, blessed silence and solitude. Safe for one exception.

Laurent stands by bed and, in the low light, he seems less severe than he did the rest of the day. He looks younger, softer, and for the first time in a while Damen feels the unequivocal instinct to protect him from all evils.

“We are married,” Laurent says and he sounds slightly surprised, the past hours little more than a strange dream.

“Yes,” Damen agrees.

“This is our wedding night.”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” Laurent says and gives a small nod as though that small detail had somehow slipped his mind.

His wedding costume is even more elaborate than is usual clothes. It must have taken an hour to even get into it and Damen does not know whether he can be as patient removing it. He steps behind Laurent and begins there, slowly undoing all the laces at his back, just as he had imagined for quite a while now. Bit by bit, Laurent's pale skin is revealed to the candle light, and Damen drops kisses to the nape of his neck, warm and lingering.

He moves on to his arms, bares his wrists, kisses them, too. Then, he can finally push the doublet off Laurent's narrow shoulders. There are no more freckles left on them, one winter in Vere having faded them all, but they had many Akielon summers yet ahead of them.

Gently, Damen pulls him over to the bed. Laurent sits, scoots back on the mattress. He is shaking.

“Laurent,” Damen says, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He has undone his _peronai_ and the silken _chiton_ has slipped off him and to the floor. Underneath, he wears nothing but his loincloth while Laurent is still dressed in his trousers and slippers.

With one hand on Laurent's ankle, he removes first the right, then the left slipper, carelessly dropping them to the floor, too. When he looks up again, Laurent is quietly crying.

Upon seeing the tears, everything in Damen grinds to a stop – his affection, his ardor, his arousal.

All he knows is that this must be the proof to the fears he had previously tried to bury. That he had hurt Laurent during that night two months ago and that Laurent only insisted on their marriage to avoid a political scandal. He was responsible like that. He'd rather throw himself to the wolves than let some ill befall his kingdom and, by extent, his father and brother.

“Laurent,” he says, his hand jittery, not knowing whether his touch would be a comfort or an offense, “Laurent, please. I will not do this without your permission. If you want me to stay away, we will never speak of this again, I will never try to touch you and-”

“You big oaf,” Laurent chides. There's a hiccup caught in his voice or maybe a sob. “I just don't want it to be something we _have_ to do.”

Oh. Damen had not considered that. To him, sex was something that you either wanted almost always and, if you didn't want it, it was to be considered rape. The fact that Laurent might want him still, but not right now, not under these circumstances, not when things were still so new and emotions running high, had not even occurred to him. It seemed that, for all the ways they had come to understand each other throughout the months of their engagement, there were yet many things left to learn for their marriage.

“For tonight,” Laurent says and he is calmer now, though there are still tears upon his cheeks, “I would like to merely lie with you.”

It's a good idea. Certainly a better ending to the night than Damen had come to expect. So he settles against the many pillows and waits while Laurent struggles out of his constricting pants, tossing them aside.

Damen himself is still mostly naked and Laurent is obviously a little flustered by that, his gaze slightly averted. But he rests his head against Damen's chest anyway and their hands hesitantly tangle with each other.

“You are very warm,” he says into the silence. Perhaps he has no other words.

“Yes,” Damen agrees because he certainly doesn't.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Laurent adds, listening, “You are nervous.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to do right by you.”

“You are,” Laurent says, “You already are.”

The candles burn down but they fall asleep long before that.

  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten bucks says this was not at all what you were expecting!  
> Next chapter will tie up some loose strings and hopefully answer all questions. Let me know what you think!


	4. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oopsie daisy, look who's lazy. Or rather, look who got distracted by other fandoms and lacked motivation for this fic. Luckily, I started reading Song of Achilles and found my love for the Greek Antique rekindled. This is the rollercoaster of a result.

xxvi

Damen dreams.

He dreams of plucking stars like flowers and forging them into a crown, or maybe of the stars forging him. He dreams of a young stag standing by a mirror glass pond, thistle and orange blossoms woven into its antlers. He dreams of the stag being chased through the woods by red hounds but the stag escaping on strong legs and with cunning maneuvers. He dreams of himself sitting on his father's throne, his eyes calm and the stars crowning his head.

Damen, vague and wandering as it is, dreams of the future.

  
Much like morning dew, the realization that he is married creeps up on Damen over night and it only fully hits him when he opens his eyes and Laurent is right there.

The sun is already draped across the sheets, a somewhat unwelcome voyeur in their wedding bed, but it makes Laurent's hair gleam gold. Damen reaches out to brush the messy strands out of Laurent's face, allowing his knuckles to smooth across an exposed shoulder.

Laurent inhales deeply and, when he breathes out again, he is looking straight back at Damen.

Damen smiles softly.

“When did you wake up?” he asks. His voice barely dares to break the silence.

“Just now, I think,” Laurent says. For once, he sounds strangely guileless and Damen wonders whether it is caused by the early hours of morning or all of yesterday's promises.

“Do you want to get up?” Damen asks him. “Or should I tell the servants to bring us breakfast?”

Laurent seems to think for a moment, the tip of his nose nudging against his pillow.

“Can we just...,” he begins tentatively, “Stay here? For now?”

“Of course,” Damen agrees, settling back on the bed more comfortably. “We have nowhere to be.”

The whole kingdom and everyone in it must believe that they had exhausted themselves last night, with wine and dance and other pleasures, and even Theomedes had pointedly reminded his son that he would not be needed for any court functions the next day.

“Be gentle with him,” he had told Damen wisely. “He is a boy still and, more than that, a Veretian. They are a fragile folk. It's just as well that Aleron has no daughter; if you had married one and gotten her with child she might not have survived the birth. The seed from Akielon loins is too strong for their narrow hips. If you take Laurent too roughly-”

There had been more advice following, but Damen had turned a deaf ear to that in according mortification.

Now, the knowledge that everyone would make assumption about them just irks him.

They do not know him or Laurent. They do not know what went on in these chambers. They see the wedding as the last step to seal the treaty that had first been written up on a battlefield at Marlas. In their eyes, the wedding night was just the spoils of a war that had not been led.

The real treat, however, is waking in the morning and knowing that Laurent is there.

In the course of the night, they had fallen from each others' embrace, the night too warm and the bed too broad. Now, Damen lifts his arm again in silent invitation. This time, Laurent does not hesitate.

He's not exactly bolder this time, but their bodies curve around each other in growing familiarity. Laurent is small, fits so perfectly against him as though the two of them had been molded for this specific purpose.

It takes a bit of shuffling to get comfortable and, in the midst of it, Laurent brushes up against against Damen's cock, half-hard and poorly hidden in his _perizoma_. They both still and then Laurent quickly shies away again, not out of his reach, not out of his arms, but still noticeably enough.

“My apologies,” Damen murmurs. They both know that this is the plight of men in the morning, but Laurent cannot help it if it makes him uneasy, even after Damen's reassurances from the night before.

To his surprise, however, Laurent just presses his thigh up against Damen's manhood, curious. Damen's eyes flutter shut.

“You tease me,” he chides and, when he looks again, there is fascination in Laurent's eyes. Of course he would enjoy discovering what kind of power he holds over Damen, and with so little a gesture, too.

He still looks like a boy then, virginal and easily flustered, with more bravado than brains in certain moments, but well on his way to being more. He'll be fierce one day, fiercer even than he already is.

But it's too early in the morning for power plays, too early in their marriage, so Damen simply reaches out to turn Laurent around in his arms and pull him snug against his chest. Like this, his cock is nestled against Laurent's behind and that is an even greater tease, but Damen has always been known for his strength of will. He still places a hand on Laurent's hip to keep him from wriggling too much.

“Rest,” he tells Laurent's beautiful ear. “The world will wait for us.

 

xxvii

Three days, several bawdy jokes and suggestive looks later, it is time to say their goodbyes to the Veretian royals.

It is strange to think that, despite his birth, Laurent is now to be considered of Akielos, bearing the name and the colors.

He and Damen are wearing twin scarlet capes, the seams richly embroidered with gold thread, while King Aleron and Prince Auguste are dressed in their customary sky blue. The king's brother is there, too, already clad in more sensible travel clothes, ready to board the ship.

Laurent is talking to him and his father. He is holding himself somewhat stiffly. Perhaps he is trying to keep his composure in the face of their farewells. Perhaps he is overly aware of his new role as representative of the Akielon crown.

In the meanwhile, Auguste has taken Damen aside once more. Their past days had been peppered with easy small-talk and long walks across the premises. Auguste had known Ios only from Laurent's letters and scattered stories here and there, but seeing it with your own eyes was something else entirely.

Auguste was pleasant company, a reprieve after most of Damen's kin kept sending teasing remarks at him, one even going so far as to ask how the honey of the Veretian flower tasted. That one had ended up with a black eye and taught the others not to take too many liberties. Auguste, in comparison, showed no interest in what happened in his brother and his brother-in-law's marital bed.

After many smiles, however, Auguste's face takes a serious mien once more.

“I beg of you,” he tells Damen, “Let no harm come to him.”

He gets like this, sometimes, like the summer sky suddenly turning to clouds, dark and foreboding. There has been no storm yet but Damen instinctively looks for shelter.

“Death could not arrest me,” he promises now, no doubt in his words. “Ios was my bride from birth, but Laurent... well.”

“He is your queen,” Auguste knows, and there is his smile again. He must have spent too much time with Nikandros and the others after all.

But queens were considered lesser than their husbands, no matter how great in deed and name. They enthralled gods and bore heroes but, all too often, their strength and wisdom was dismissed, whether in legend or in life. Damen would never have that for Laurent. It did not feel right. Not simply because Laurent was a man, but because he was Laurent, simple as that.

“He is my equal,” he tells Auguste. “And I shall trust him with my life just as well.”

“You are a wise man, Damianos,” Auguste says thoughtfully. “And an honest one.”

From anyone else, it might sound like condescension. Even Laurent would have phrased is as more of a fault than a favor. But Auguste, Veretian though he may be, does not put any poison into his words. He is as forward and upstanding as Damen, just with more foresight and consideration.

At Marlas, Damen might have killed him. Chance – and Auguste's insistence - had brought them here instead.

“Goodbye, my friend,” Damen tells him now, clasping his hand like warriors would.

“My brother,” Auguste corrects him and pulls him into an embrace as family does.

 

In the streets, on their ride back to the palace, people come and marvel at them. They had welcomed the Veretian prince upon his arrival, but few had seen their future kings side by side yet. Children run after them on naked feet and young women put hands to their bellies. The sight of a newly wedded queen was meant to bring about fertility and strong children. Damen is not so sure it would work like this in Laurent's case, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

The people at large had readily accepted the match between the royal families. It meant fewer wars and thus fewer sons and husbands not returning from them.

“Kastor was not present,” Laurent says mildly. His face is dry and his voice even. He had not cried upon his farewell from Auguste, but it seemed to be more determination than lack of reason.

“He has business to attend to in Mycalos,” Damen returns. “He left early this morning.”

Laurent gives a little hum, sounding both thoughtful and careless at the same time.

“You are not close,” he notes what he already knows. He had spent enough time in Akielos to see that Kastor kept Damen at arm's length these days.

“Not as close as you and Auguste, no,” Damen agrees, going for a lighthearted tone. Laurent's eyes, however, are on Damen's fingers that clench around his stallion's reins.

“My mother seemed barren for a long time,” Damen explains. Laurent must already know a little, must have figured out the rest for himself, but his asking Damen for the truth is more chivalrous than slapping it in his face. “Kastor was born a bastard and raised a prince. He was our father's pride and joy and, more importantly, his heir.” He exhales a deep breath, almost a sigh. “Then I came along. We were brothers and he loved me fiercely – until he understood that I had stolen his crown.”

“ _Stolen_ ,” Laurent snorts in contempt. “You are the legitimate son-”

“You are thinking like a Veretian,” Damen points out. “In Akielon history, bastard kings are not a rarity. Some of our greatest rulers were the sons of mistresses. In one case even, King Noctes was wounded in a hunting accident and lost the use of his legs – and his loins. He could father no children. So, with his permission, Queen Calla took Noctes' closest friend Kymneus to bed. Now, I say friend but, in his youth, Kymneus had been Noctes' lover and they were rumored to still be so by then. With anyone else, such a constellation might have bred consternation. But, when Calla gave birth to twins, Noctes and Kymneus both claimed equal fatherhood and the three of them raised them together. Their son Iphil chose to become a high priest and established the Grand Library of Ios that you so love. Their daughter Isidra took the throne. And that is the origin of my lineage.”

He told the story to distract Laurent and, for a moment, it seems to be working, for Laurent is smiling slightly.

“What you are saying is,” he teases, “That you are a descended of a bastard queen yourself?”

“I'm saying, it is our hearts that define us,” Damen says. “Not our blood.”

“You would be right in that,” Laurent agrees. His gaze has grown somber again and he takes his reins a little tighter, spurs his mare forward. “Your blood can betray you.”

 

xxviii

Wedded bliss, it quickly turns out, escapes them. Life continues and so do Damen's duties. He has troops to lead, even in peace, and assisting his father, taking over more and more of his tasks. Theomedes had already been past his prime when Kastor was born. Now he was aging and, worse than that, his health seemed to be failing him.

He complained about aching joints, not with words but with the twitching of the deepening creases around his eyes. He ate less, imbibed more medicines upon the recommendation of his physicians. At the wedding feast, he had not let it show, had danced and drunken and not betrayed any weakness. But the way he relied on his sons more and more proved that even the great Theomedes knew that neither Life nor Death could be negotiated with.

In addition to his worry over his ill father and his taciturn brother, Damen's mind is distracted by thinking of Laurent.

Not as any man would think of his young spouse, but with bitten nails and creased brow.

Because, mere weeks after their wedding, Laurent is unhappy. He seems homesick, more so than he did during his firth month at Ios last year. But now, it is permanent. Now Akielos is his rightful home and he mustn't yearn for any other.

“We can visit them as soon as you wish,” Damen has already promised repeatedly. “Fall is not upon us yet and the seas are still calm.”

Time and time again, Laurent had only given him woeful looks. Of course the problem wasn't quite that easily solved. There was more Laurent missed than his family and the food and the fields of Vere.

Laurent was bored, too. A queen's duties consisted primarily of overseeing the household. Large as the palace was, this would have kept any strategist more than busy, but it was considered to be beneath a prince's station. Not to mention that Ios had been without a queen for a long time. The stewards had a tight rein over all the workings in the palace and delegating any tasks to Laurent would only lead to disaster on all sides.

Lastly, there were Damen's own creeping doubts, ones that kept piling up as Laurent shared his bed on many nights but failed to spread his legs as most would have expected him to. Damen did not fault him for it, but it did make him wonder.

When talking to Aleron, after their unfortunate chalis-fueled night together, Laurent had claimed he loved Damen, had given that as his reason. But he was a boy still and Damen had thought himself half in love every other day when he had been that age. Was it truly so unlikely that he had overestimated himself, that he had made a terrible mistake and only realized it now?

The only one Damen had confided in about how the marriage had not officially been consummated was Nikandros who was not necessarily a big help in those matters.

“Get yourself a nice slave,” he encourages Damen when he voices his concern. “Or one of the men, if you really need to let off some steam.”

He talks as though this were the only problem, as though it were merely Damen's lust looking for direction, not his love. So Damen just pulls a face.

“I'm a married man, Nikandros,” he says, feeling vaguely insulted. Two years ago, the idea of taking other lovers outside of his marital bed would never have fazed him. Now it seems like nothing but an insult.

But Nikandros stares at him, mortified.

“What has that boy done to you?” he asks, not quite in jest. Meeting Laurent had neither matured nor mellowed Damen, but it had changed him still in small and subtle ways.

“That boy will one day be one of your kings,” he reminds Nikandros. Perhaps sooner rather than later, he thinks sullenly, remembering his father's condition.

“I'm starting to think that's not such a bad idea, considering you appear to be completely useless half of the time,” Nikandros huffs. “At least Laurent knows how to separate his feelings from his work-”

He catches himself, but it's already too late.

“I'm sorry,” he apologizes awkwardly. “I didn't intend-”

“It's fine,” Damen waves him off. “You're right, in a way.”

Theirs could be a good marriage, all things considered. They could be civil with each other and capable of bearing the crown. In an arranged marriage, that was all one could ask for.

But love was like saltwater on the tongue. One drop and your brain tricks you into wanting more, no matter how deadly. Damen had dipped his toe in and now he sought to drown himself in the waves.

Laurent, in turn, could part the sea.

It would be easier if Laurent didn't seem so terribly lonely. He preferred solitude, Damen knows this, but he had never sought to isolate himself so thoroughly as he does now.

He keeps no slaves and sends away servants, does not favor the company of youths his age, is often annoyed by the boasting of Damen's men and the nagging of their wives. He shows Theomedes cool respect and Kastor respectful cold.

Even the odd friendship he had struck up with Jokaste has grown tepid. Instead, in lieu of the heir to the throne, she has taken it up with Kastor, sitting with him at dinner and flashing pretty smiles at him. With her standing, she could find a better husband, one with a name to call his own, but Theomedes had always treated Kastor fairly instead of leaving him without lands and loyalties.

They are both quick-witted and well-spoken and as such they would make a good match. Damen would welcome them as his advisers, once he had to build his own council. Would welcome their children as his heirs, if need be. His marriage with Laurent would not yield any offspring, even if Laurent did warm up to him eventually, but Damen had no head to imagine a future in which he takes a woman to bed just to get her with child.

For now, there were other trials to face.

 

xxix

When the news reach him, Damen positively flies through the palace, as though carried by divine winds. His sandals slap loudly against the marble in the corridors and his breath is loud in his ears. In his chest, his heart is beating wildly and it has little to do with physical exertion.

He finds Laurent in their shared rooms and the sight should be reassuring, but it is not, not as such, just serves as a reminder of what could have been.

Because Laurent's white _chiton_ , chosen to accommodate the heat of the day, is covered in blood and Laurent's pale skin seems even paler in comparison.

With three big strides Damen has crossed the room and then he is already hugging Laurent close, tightly enough that he thinks he could just press him into his rib cage and keep him safe.

Laurent does not resist, but does not quite lean into the touch either. He must still be in shock, Damen knows, knows that he himself is.

As a soldier, he is used to danger. But that was primarily on the battle field, not within his own city walls.

The way the guard had told the story, Laurent had just been leaving the Grand Library, crossing its courtyard and already half-buried in one of his books, when suddenly a man had sprung out from behind a statue of Illas, the goddess of learning. The guards that accompanied Laurent whenever he left the palace would not have been quick enough to intervene.

Fortunately, Laurent himself was. He had tossed his book into the stranger's face, had knocked the hand holding a dagger aside, and then pulled forth his own stiletto and promptly stabbed the man in the side of the neck.

Beyond Damen's shock, however, manifests a solid, deep-rooted anger.

“Whoever is behind this, will pay,” he growls into his Laurent's hair, only tightening his grip on him. It is possible, but unlikely that the man had acted on his own. Judging by his clothes and his approach, he was a lowlife who had been promised a hefty sum but been robbed on his life instead.

“Ah,” Laurent says, sounding surprised. “I didn't mean to kill him. Now we cannot interrogate him.”

The man had tried to lay hands upon Laurent. Whether he had been blackmailed or coerced to do this, Damen would have tortured him until he begged to be killed.

But that is beside the point. The rage that shakes through Damen's bones comes second to the tremble in Laurent's voice.

“Was this your first time?” Damen asks, gentling himself. He would have preferred for Laurent to never make this experience, especially not in such a manner. But it was done and there was blood on Laurent's hands.

In response, Laurent gives a jerky little nod.

“It is messier, than I anticipated,” he relays. “Not just the blood but he... soiled himself.”

He frowns, as though contemplating the matter from a safer distance. Many boys fell victim to the tales of glory in death and were dreadfully disappointed when they first saw the real thing. He takes a deep breath, shaky though it may be.

“Does it get easier?” he asks at length.

“Easier to focus on the pragmatics,” Damen knows. “If you don't do it, he will. If you don't do it, the battle will be lost, the city will fall. It is a means to an end.”

Laurent gives an empty smile. “That is the most logical thing I have ever heard you say.”

“I hoped it would please you,” Damen says. “You've told me I am too emotional by half.”

“You are,” Laurent says and pointedly frees himself from the embrace, but his tone is not unkind, warming up after having been frozen stiff with lingering fear. “Let me get changed. And washed.”

Even with the slim blade of the stiletto, a wound to the neck would have bled profusely, especially if a major artery was hit. Laurent's hair is still wet, so it is likely that he already had had to wash blood off his face, but the fabric of his _chiton_ is adorned with red streaks.

Damen frowns, a thought occurring to him.

“Where did you keep your stiletto?” he asks. He is pleased that it was his present to Laurent that had saved his life, pleased that Laurent was resourceful enough to not only carry it around with him but to actually make use of it. Yet now, he cannot help but wonder. With Veretian clothing, the small weapon easily fit into a sleeve, but that was not possible with a _chiton_.

Laurent blinks a little, blindsided by the question, but it must be a welcome distraction from other thoughts. Not taking his eyes of Damen, he reaches for the hem of his _chiton_ and lifts it up a little from where it hangs loosely not all the way down to his knees.

There, cinched around his white thigh, is a plain leather strap, holding the stiletto in place. It has been cleaned already, sharp as ever, beautiful in its simplicity. It had killed a man today. Laurent had killed a man today. Laurent had almost been killed. Damen had almost lost him.

“Clever,” Damen says, his mouth dry. Other men might consider concealed weapons cowardice, but the two of them knew better.

Accordingly, Laurent only turns away, tilting his nose up.

“I should think so,” he says, no false vanity, just an agreement on facts. With one hand, he undoes his _peronai_ and the _chiton_ slips off his shoulder, pools around his feet, like a snake casting of the hide that has grown too small. He is still wearing his loincloth, but shame for nudity is probably the last thing on his mind anyway.

Damen, however, is not quite as unaffected.

Fear for life, when alleviated, quickly turns into affirmation of life, and he can feel the blood rushing to his loins.

Without a thought, he presses himself up against Laurent from behind, one of his arms sneaking around his torso while the other hand reaches down to his leg. His fingers run along the blunt side of the stiletto, up to its hilt where it is held by the strap, and Damen outlines it with barely there touches. The leather is smooth, but Laurent's skin is smoother still.

Damen's breath comes a little quicker while Laurent's hitches.

“Damen,” he says, not warningly, not fearfully. Just his name.

“Let me have this,” Damen pleads. “Just this, just now.”

His hands do not wander farther. His cock is hard against the small of Laurent's back and his nose buries itself in blond hair, but he does nothing more. Laurent does not push him away.

They linger like this, for a couple of moments, until Damen can breathe easy again and the room no longer feels quite so small. Eventually, he loosens his hold and takes a step back.

They look at each other. That moment then between them is not tense, not as such, not as the sky before it is split apart by lightning, but as a fish in a pond, visible but not quite breaking its surface, the water curving around it silver scales.

This catch, Damen knows, it for a later day.

“I should take a bath,” Laurent says, but doesn't turn away.

“Yes,” Damen says, but doesn't leave.

“You should join me,” Laurent offers, so Damen does.

After the heat of the day, the water is cool and calming. They do not touch each other, barely even look, but the presence is welcome anyway.

 

xxx

If possible, Laurent grows even more seclusive. It was to be expected, perhaps, that the attempt on his life would chill him, but he spends most of his time in his rooms now or in the stables tending to his mare.

He excuses himself from dinners, claiming fatigue and then nausea. Theomedes, sallow underneath his nut-brown skin and with his cheeks sunken in from loss of weight, jokes whether Damen's seed was potent enough to do the impossible and get the boy with child, but the levity is poorly received.

Laurent had been a sickly child, Auguste had mentioned once, from natural disposition, and now the physicians couldn't find the cause either.

With both his old father and his young husband spending most of their time in bed and resting, Damen scrambles to keep court and kingdom running, all while trying not to let his own fear let him rip apart.

Laurent's illness does not seem quite so severe, but Theomedes is a different case. And Damen, irrational though it may be, fears being orphaned and widowed in the same year.

On a particularly bad day, when he had to watch his father exhaust himself with a coughing fit, Damen has half a mind to drink himself to sleep. He is two cups deep into a bottle of the best wine, when Laurent finds him like this, sitting by the window.

“Won't you come to bed?” he asks, already in his nightclothes.

Damen glances up, frowns. He is an early riser and early sleeper. Usually, it is Laurent who joins him late at night, if at all. For him to explicitly wait for Damen is a first.

“I have business to attend to,” Damen tells him, but Laurent just looks at Damen's legs kicked out in front of him, looks the wine and the low-burning candle. He lifts an eyebrow.

Damen is not yet drunk enough to blame it on the alcohol but, in a stabbing kind of spite, he thinks how other men are more eager to return to their marital bed because they are given good reason to. Laurent, chaste as he is, has no right be begrudge him this.

As soon as the thought comes and goes, however, Damen feels rueful about it. He turns his head away.

“I have a lot on my mind,” he says.

“Is this about the king?” Laurent asks and Damen jerks a little at his bluntness.

“My father,” he corrects because he had always known that the king would die one day, but he is not ready to wish his father farewell.

Laurent gives a curt nod.

“When did his health first start failing?” he asks. Surprisingly, his voice, pitiless as it is, does not hurt as much as cloying sympathy would have.

It takes a moment for Damen to recall.

“Around the time I was visiting Vere for the second time,” he guesses. When he had returned, Theomedes has mentioned his ailments in passing, but there had been a wedding to arrange and all the excitement that came with it. The realization that the situation was more serious than expected only came later.

Damen looks at Laurent now and finds himself just as blind. Laurent does not look sick, not pale, not diminished. Apart from his complaints about his head and his stomach, he seems well. Damen purses his mouth and looks away again.

“I have taken the liberty to send for my physician in Vere,” Laurent tells him now. “Not that I don't trust yours, but I have known him since boyhood. He is quite skilled and I am certain he will be able to figure out what ails your father as well.”

“It's old age and too many battle scars,” Damen huffs, taking another swig from his cup.

Theomedes had fallen off horses and gotten into drunken brawls when he was Damen's age. He had taken an arrow to the shoulder, lost two fingers of his left hand in a fight, and – his favorite story – wrestled a bear once. Now, all of that was taking its toll.

The thing with heroes was that they were supposed to die young. Great kings might live long but no one wanted to see them grow old.

“Still,” Laurent insists. “I would sleep better knowing we did our best.” He pauses, gives Damen an assessing look. “And I would sleep better still,” he adds, “If you were there with me.”

Damen closes his eyes and sets his cup down. Swallows. Thinks.

Laurent, then as now, is confusing. Laurent lets him sleep pressed close, but won't let him touch anywhere else. Laurent demands explanations but gives no answers himself. Laurent insults him in one breath and writes him love poetry in the next. Either way, he cuts Damen open with words.

“I think,” he says, with more deliberation than he usually takes with his words, “That I would prefer to be on my own tonight.”

Laurent, he knows, had not expected that. Laurent was used to his eagerness, as though Damen were a pup that loved to play and cuddle but was easily put into place. A prince of Vere did not know refusal.

Now, he bristles.

“If I have displeased you-,” he begins, his voice cutting, but Damen does not let him finish.

“Do not speak to me like a belligerent wife,” he warns. “It does not suit you.”

“How then, dear husband, should I speak?” Laurent wants to know, jutting his chin forward. “More obeisance perhaps? More courtesy?”

“Right now I wished you didn't speak at all,” Damen tells him.

Laurent's eyes widen, just a tiny bit. Then he closes his mouth, gives another nod, turns on his heel, and marches out of the room again. Damen is left behind.

He drinks a third cup, in slow silence. Looks out of the window and then at the melting candle. The night is growing late.

He had not raised his voice at Laurent, but his words had been enough, and this was the first fight of their marriage, if not of their acquaintance. They should not go to sleep like this, with heavy thoughts weighting down their dreams.

And, he notes belatedly, Laurent had not left for his own chambers, but for their shared bedroom. Perhaps it had been a subconscious decision, just a return to the bed where he had been before. Or it was a sign of dominance, to tell Damen to stay away. Or, quite possibly, it was done in hope for comfort. It was the offering of an olive branch.

Damen sighs, pushes the wine aside and stands up.

The room is not all dark when he makes it there, a single candle lit by the bedside, though Laurent is turned away from it. He's got the covers of the bed pulled up, almost hiding underneath them. He is still a boy in the way he sulks and pouts.

“Laurent,” Damen says as he sits on the edge of the mattress. I've come to apologize, he's meant to say, but he does not feel overly apologetic. Neither of them particularly wronged the other. It was just that Damen sought to make his words as clear and honest as possible while Laurent was always overthinking his own and trying to read deception in others'. Like this, everything they said got all twisted around their feet and tripped them up. Now all Damen could do was to offer a hand so they could try to keep going.

Laurent exhales, his shoulders heaving. Then he rolls over in the bed. His hair catches on the pillowcase, spread out like the sunset around a mountain peak. The look on his face is difficult to gauge, not cross, not tired, not sad. Just wondering, waiting for Damen to set the tune.

Damen, as he is wont to do, goes for honesty.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he says. “I don't want to misunderstand you. But I do not want you to hurt me either.”

“Am I hurting you, Damianos?” Laurent asks.

“You might,” Damen admits, “Not intentionally, but that does little to change the pain.”

“What can I do then?” Laurent asks, pushing himself up on the mattress.

“Talk to me,” Damen says. “Be with me. We are married, for better or for worse. I would have your council and your company, yet you-,” he shudders out a breath, expels the accusation right with it. “I feel like I know you and then I don't,” he confesses. “You're like a cloud in the sky. I think I see you, I think I comprehend your existence, but you are out of my reach, you are ephemeral, you are greater than I could ever understand. You bring rain and storms and shade-”

“I'm not a cloud, Damen,” Laurent interrupts, touching a hand to his cheek. “Clouds disappear when they get too close to the sun.”

And, just like that, the tension breaks. The fish leaps from the water.

It is the first kiss since their wedding day and the desperation that comes with it is palpable. Damen thinks he could swallow him whole, but he gives it time, lets Laurent find his way around this. Kissing is an art that is learned with patience.

A patience that quickly runs out on both sides and, soon enough, it is no longer just their lips searching for each other.

Damen's hands are dark against the white of Laurent's nightgown when he pushes it up, dark against the skin they expose. Laurent ducks his head through the collar, pulls his arms free, and then his rib cage expands under Damen's touch.

Arrested, Damen rubs a thumb over a nipple, pink as a rosebud, watches as it hardens.

How, he thinks. How could he have forgotten this?

“I am sorry,” Damen says, regret thickening his voice, “For not remembering the first time we did this.”

“You idiot,” Laurent says fondly, reaching up to run his fingers through his curls. “We never did. I simply lied.”

“What?” Damen's head jerks up. “Why on earth would you-”

“Hmm,” Laurent hums, his eyes heavy-lidded. “I had my reasons.”

Damen's brain is barely able to keep up with the revelation. Like this, his mouth only gapes open.

“We were practically forced to marry on the spot,” he says, a slightly hysteric edge to it.

“Do you regret it?” Laurent asks. He is completely calm and that calm, in turn, is what soothes Damen as well, like a cool hand on a fevered brow.

“No,” he knows, burying his face against the side of Laurent's neck. “Not now, not ever. But why-”

“I will tell you,” Laurent promises. “Later. Now, I believe that under Akielon law a marriage is to be considered null and void it it was not consummated in the eyes of the gods.”

“You believe in our laws and our gods?” Damen teases, though he can already feel his blood quicken.

“I better should,” Laurent says, “If I am to be queen.”

“You will be a king,” Damen says. “I will not have it any other way.”

“Then what way would you have me?” Laurent asks and it is so bold a question that the meaning catches Damen off guard.

He swallows.

“Turn around and lie on your front,” he instructs, watching as Laurent stretches out along the bed and on his belly. For their first time, this position will be easiest on him.

With careful fingers, he loosens Laurent's loincloth, exposes his perfect pert behind. Unbidden, his father's words come to mind, of slender boys and narrow hips. Laurent is not yet fully grown and Damen feels almost grotesque next to him. So he reminds himself to take special care, grabs one of the vials of fine oils from the bedside table. So far, the servants had not yet had reason to replenish the stash, but no one had openly wondered about that.

Upon the first touch, Laurent willingly legs his legs fall open, relaxes himself as Damen's finger finds him. They take their time before Damen adds another, more time still before he pushes in a third. He is rarely quite this thorough, but he'll be damned if he doesn't make this as pleasurable as possible for Laurent.

He crooks his fingers, till Laurent is squirming, pressing his hips against the sheets, but no sounds escape him.

Finally, Damen deems him ready.

He shucks off his own _chiton_ and loincloth, runs a soothing hand over the small of Laurent's back before covering his body with his own, fully engulfing him. He takes care to keep his weight off him, their arms entangled underneath Laurent's chest. Then he presses forward, pushes in.

The first stretch, and Laurent's breath goes out of him.

“Don't tense,” Damen tells him, though it will probably not be appreciated. His fingers teasingly pluck at Laurent's nipples, hoping to distract him from the discomfort.

“You are... very large,” Laurent manages to says. “I had... suspected, but...”

“You thought of me?” Damen murmurs into his ear, kisses the shell. “Of this?”

“It was just – _ah_ – a vague notion,” Laurent claims. “We were engaged for a long time.”

“Not that long,” Damen chuckles, though in retrospect it seems much longer. Back at Marlas, when he had first laid eyes on the princeling, he never would have thought that less than three years later would find them here.

Now, he gathers Laurent's long hair in one hand and pushes it out of the way so that he may kiss the nape of his neck, may lap at the skin that has started to dampen with sweat.

He remains gentle. This is not his first time deflowering a girl or a boy and he knows better than to rush things. Not to mention that it has been a while since he has taken anyone to bed. He has stamina, yes, but if you leave your best horse in the stable it will only end up tiring more easily. Fortunately, he knew Laurent to be an avid rider.

Not yet, though. For now, they would get used to each other. To the creases in their skin and the structure of their bones.

Angling his hips, he gets Laurent to arch off the bed a little, sneaking his hand underneath so he can take his cock in hand. He is fully erect and leaking and, when Damen runs a thumb over the head, Laurent whimpers.

Damen shouldn't tease him, he knows, not if he doesn't want things to end all too quickly. But he wants him to properly enjoy this, too.

So he sets a slow, easy pace, hips and hand, till Laurent is writhing underneath him, stretching so beautifully, but it takes a particularly loud gasp for Damen to fully comprehend that this is truly happening, not a dream, not an idle fantasy. He is inside of Laurent and Laurent is around him, two halves of one whole. Anything else would not make sense, is incomprehensible.

Together, they urge each other to new heights and, overwhelmed, Laurent presses a palm to his mouth to stifle the little noises he makes. Damen wants him to be more unselfconscious, to show no shame in letting his voice be heard. But all of this is new to him and he would grow more confident with time.

The thought of Laurent, vocal and assertive in what he wants from him, has heat spike through Damen's belly, but for now he will enjoy this boy who is shier than he likes to admit, who sometimes still blushes at vulgar words, who had freely lied about drugging a prince in order to bed him but then not dared to bed him on their wedding night.

He was an enigma, a mystery, and Damen suspected that he would never understand all of him. He found himself surprisingly content with that prospect.

When he comes, Laurent gives more of a mewl than a moan, but it is the most perfect sound Damen's ears have ever heard. He strains forward, pushes into Laurent's clenching heat, and lets go.

Laurent, by virtue of the more intense pleasure nature had bestowed upon the receiving partners, be they male or female, is still caught in the aftermath of his orgasm when Damen gently turns him around, cleans him with the discarded nightgown. Then he sees that Laurent is crying.

His stomach takes a pitfall, thinking that after this – after all this – he had still managed to somehow hurt Laurent.

Laurent, however, looks more annoyed than anything else, but his body is relaxed, his cheeks and lips red. And Damen is not sure what did it, whether it was the height of arousal or the depth of trust, but it seemed that he had just made Laurent of Vere cry from the intensity of his climax.

Maybe Damen's smile is a bit too smug then because Laurent merely sends him a glare before wiping the tears from underneath his eyes and staring at them, almost in contempt. But Damen just grasps his hand and kisses the salt from his fingertips, savoring the taste. This, he swore, would be the only cause for Laurent to ever shed a tear again.

For a long time after, they just lie together in silence. Then Damen finally speaks up.

“You promised me a truth,” he remind him and Laurent gives a big sigh.

“You already took my virginity,” he points out. He does not sound as reluctant as the words might make him out to be, but his gaze is fixed on the ceiling.

“I meant what I said,” Damen tells him. “About not understanding you. I know- I know there are things you don't trust me with and I respect that. But... I feel like I have been made a tool in some game you and Auguste have been playing, and it has been going on for too long-”

“It's not a game,” Laurent insists. “It's-,” he breaks off, shudders, “So much more dangerous than that.”

“Then what?” Damen demands. “There has been an attempt on your life, Laurent, and on your brother's, too. What other danger is there than makes this pale in comparison?”

His pleading, finally, seems to break through the last of Laurent's walls.

“My uncle,” he says, his voice small “Is not a kind man.”

The words, when they are spoken, take Damen by surprise. He had never wasted much thought on the king's brother. He seemed nice enough, steady, if a little faint in comparison to Auguste's radiance and Aleron's solid presence. But Damen was inclined to trust Laurent's judgment on this so he does not interrupt, just listens closely.

“He... hungers for the throne,” Laurent elaborates. “And for young boys. He hungers for those, too.”

It takes Damen a long moment to make sense of that second part. Because he gets treason, he gets betrayal, he get usurpation. But that other truth is too vile to accept, not with all its implications.

“No,” he whispers, brokenly, presses his forehead against Laurent's shoulder.

“He tried it with Auguste first, many years ago,” Laurent continues. “But Auguste was always a skilled fighter, even at that age. He didn't quite understand what had happened, didn't know how to put it into words and tell anyone. But eventually, he began to figure out what it meant. And he was able to read the signs, when our uncle eventually turned to me.”

“He- Did he-?” Damen tries, unable to finish the question. To his relief, Laurent shakes it head.

“Back at Marlas, though, Auguste suspected that something might go awry. Too many opportunities for him or our father to die.” Laurent swallows, probably considering the many terrible could-have-beens. “That's why he called off the duel and asked for parlay instead. He didn't fear his own death, but he didn't dare leave me behind with our uncle. So he proposed the contract.”

Damen can recall it now, that edginess to Auguste that day which hadn't seemed to suit him in retrospect, Aleron's surprise and the uncle's subtle attempt to divert Auguste's endeavors.

“He had hoped it would be enough to keep our uncle away, that he wouldn't touch me now that I was promised to someone else,” Laurent says. “It wasn't, though. On the night of our engagement, he lured me away from the feast.”

On the bed, Laurent's fingers have clenched themselves in the sheets. Damen finds them, intertwines them with his own, offers reassurance.

Laurent takes a deep breath. “Before, Auguste had talked to me about matters, had made me agree to his plans. But it wasn't until then that I fully understood this cruel reality. I hadn't... hadn't thought that he would try it so bluntly, but perhaps his decision was fueled by spite. I managed to get away, barely, and fled to your rooms.”

“And you made me promise to take you to Ios,” Damen remembers and Laurent nods.

“I was safe for a year. Safer among Akielon barbarians than in the proximity of my own kin. When I returned to Arles, our uncle was stuck in Patras for the winter. Even if he hadn't been, Auguste and I had hoped that I would be too old for his tastes anyway.”

Another pause, another sigh. “But we hadn't considered how petty he would be. He first made attempts on Auguste's life and then he tried to force a scandal by plying you and me with chalis-infused wine.”

At this, Damen jerks. “Wait,” he says. “I thought you had been the one to drug me?”

“Please,” Laurent scoffs. “As though I would have needed that to get you into bed. Lying to my father was simply the only way I could think of to divert his plans. And now we are here, our marriage finally consummated.”

Damen wonders whether all of this had been the reason why Laurent had been reluctant about taking him to bed before, why he had be so leery and circumspect of the touches between them. It does not matter. That was past them and there were other things waiting.

“Your father and your brother are still in danger then,” Damen contemplates.

“They are,” Laurent agrees.

“That is why you have been so withdrawn. You worry for them.”

“I do.”

Damen thinks some more, tries to make his own deductions, but comes up blank.

“There is more, isn't there?”

“I am afraid so.”

“You think I will not like it.”

“I know so.”

The corners of Damen's mouth pull down. This was the most unpleasant pillow talk he has ever had. His heart already feels raw like a slab of meat after a whipping.

“Then what is it?” he asks anyway.

“My uncle's treason reaches deep,” Laurent says. “And far. He is pulling strings here in Ios, too.”

“In the palace?” Damen tensed. “The man that attacked you-”

“A poor attempt,” Laurent sniffs. “Not by my uncle's design, but his bidding, I believe. However, there is another I suspect as his accomplice.”

“Who?” Damen asks, thinking frantically, but he has always had trouble expecting the worst of people.

“Kastor,” Laurent says and the breath escapes Damen like the wind from his sails.

“No,” he says, pushing himself up on the bed. “He is my brother-”

“And my uncle is my father's brother,” Laurent reminds him. “Both feel like they were robbed of the throne.”

“Do you have proof then?” Damen demands, “To bring such allegations to the crown?”

“Not yet,” Laurent amends. “But I have recruited Jokaste for my cause.”

So they still conspired together and Jokaste's new-found interest in Kastor was fueled by a different sort hunger. She was a calculated one, to endear herself to the prince consort so early on and get into his good graces. They were lucky she had not chosen to stand on Kastor's side instead.

“And what, do you think, is his game?” Damen plows on, furiously trying to align the pieces of the broken mirror.

“My death at the hands of an Akielon would doubtlessly have sparked outrage,” Laurent muses idly. “With enough pushing and some lies, my uncle would have urged my father toward a new war and found a way to dispose of him then. But that didn't work. So now he seems to be planning to get rid of your father, somehow kill you as well, and then have Kastor ascend the throne who, again, would bring war, carefully constructed though it may be.”

Damen suddenly feels very very cold.

“My father,” he says numbly. “His condition.”

“That is why I have called for my own physician,” Laurent says. “I would trust him with my life and with your father's.”

Here, finally, something that makes sense to Damen.

“Your own illness,” he realizes. “It was feigned as to not rouse suspicion.”

Again, Laurent nods. “I do not know which of your servants or guards or physicians are in on this, which of them have been threatened or paid off. Paschal is firmly in my service, though. If anyone can save the king, it is him.”

Tiredly, Damen rubs a hand over his face. This night had taken him to so many unexpected places, most of them unwanted. He feels like he has aged ten years in the past hour.

“Assuming this is true,” he says because a part of him still refuses to believe any of it, “What do you think we should do. Is time not of the essence?”

“My father has the same fault as you do,” Laurent's smile has a sad tinge to it. “He trusts his brother blindly. And as ambassador my uncle has influence that is not to be underestimated. We need to thoroughly dismantle his spiderweb before we can take him down. But he has started to depend too heavily on his success in Akielos. If we get Kastor, we will take a heavy blow as well.”

Damen sighs, flops back onto his bed.

“You know how most people just go to sleep after a good tumble?” he asks, mildly petulant because it seems like a relatively safe feeling.

“I know,” Laurent flashes him a sharp smirk. “I have never wanted to be most people.”

 

xxxi

“What on earth has gotten into you?” Nikandros demands the next day, when they are running through drills and Damen cannot seem to concentrate. “One moment you are smiling like a boy who has discovered his cock for the first time, the next you look as though the gods' wrath were upon you.”

Damen purses his lips, musing how that comparison is not too far off. He opens his mouth, for a smart retort or an honest answer, but words fail him. Nikandros has always been his greatest confidant, since they were little boys still, but he is afraid that voicing his doubts will make them more real, more tangible.

“Nikandros,” he begins and his tone is enough to clue his friend in on the fact that this is going to be a serious conversation. “What are your thoughts on Kastor?”

Nikandros, to his commend, does not seem surprised by the sentiment of the question, just that Damen would be posing it.

“He is your brother,” he answers, slow and deliberate. “Your older brother who has always had an envious streak and who would not talk to your for two months after finding out that you would be the king.”

“We were children-,” Damen objects instinctively but Nikandros just cocks an eyebrow.

“You were a child,” he corrects, “He was twelve years old which some would consider closer to being a man grown.” He sighs deeply. “Damianos. Kastor is a man like many others. Not the most honorable, not the most deplorable. In a different life, he might have made a fine king. But in this life, I do not like how he looks at you when you cannot see it.”

“Then perhaps I do not see it because it is not there!”

“You are blind, Damen,” Nikandros objects. “Blinded by love and loyalty. Your heart cannot fathom such unfavorable feelings, so your eyes refuse to see.”

At that, Damen falls silent. Because Nikandros is right. It wouldn't be the first time that Damen had been deceived because his gullibility. But never could he have anticipated anything of such vastness.

“What brought this on, then?” Nikandros asks now. “If you don't quite believe it yourself?”

Damen give a little laugh, devoid of humor. “Laurent is as keen-eyed as you,” he admits. “He suspects an attempt at usurpation.”

“So soon.” Nikandros worries at his lower lip. Doubtlessly, he is already thinking of plans of how to expose Kastor. “Your boy has a smart head on his shoulders, not just a pretty one.”

“He does,” Damen agrees quietly and for a moment they stand like that, contemplating this new knowledge between them.

Finally, Nikandros shrugs off the gravitas like an old coat, looking for levity.

“That explains your somberness,” he says. “But what are the smiles for?”

At that, a new bright smile breaks from Damen face, sunshine through the clouds.

“Laurent took me to bed last night,” he reveals. “The gods themselves have not known such pleasure.”

“And there we have it,” Nikandros says, rolling his eyes and turning away.

 

xxxii

Paschal, Laurent's personal physician, arrives a week later, and immediately goes to see Theomedes. He recommends sunshine, lots of water, and food that is overseen only by the most trusted of cooks.

“Poison,” Laurent tells Damen later. “He suspects a slow working poison.”

It's not proof, not yet, but few would have this kind of influence within the palace. If Theomedes seemed to die of a seemingly natural cause, it would be an easy thing to do away with Damen. A riding accident, an assassination – there were many ways. Damen's fists clench by his sides as he lets the anger simmer in his guts.

He is not used to this, this watching and waiting that Laurent insists on, and it does not sit well with him.

“Imagine it like a battle,” Laurent stalls him. “Even with an army at your back, you would not just charge into the fray and risk your men's lives. You need patience and a strategy.”

“Last time I heeded such advice, I ended up betrothed to a wily Veretian,” he taunts, though he closes his arms around Laurent's waist and lifts him into a kiss.

“See,” Laurent says. “And now that wily Veretian is saving your life. Good advice, indeed.”

For all that the worry regarding his father and brother keeps gnawing at his intestines, Damen cannot help but admit that his marriage with Laurent is sailing like a ship across the sea when the winds are up.

Most days they are late for breakfast and leave dinner early. Thanks to Paschal, the king's health also improves, and Damen's mood lifts in accordance. Kastor's, in comparison, seems carefully neutral.

Eventually, Theomedes is well enough again that they can host a small feast, and Damen finds himself seated with Paschal.

The physician is pleasant company, well-spoken and with a soothing presence. Damen can see why Laurent likes him. Laurent would probably like him less if he knew what kind of stories Paschal is regaling Damen with.

“His Veretian has developed an accent,” Paschal chuckles when they talk about how Laurent has grown, from a boy, to a young man and then a prince in his own right. At that, however, Damen blinks at him, surprised.

“It has?” he asks. “Can that happen so quickly?”

“It can, if one is deeply immersed in a new language,” the man knows. “It's not only the sound of it, though. Some expressions, figures of speech... When he first returned from Akielos, the nobles were laughing their heads off at some of the things he was saying – and without even being aware of it himself. Prince Auguste was amused. King Aleron despaired a little.”

Damen finds himself strangely pleased by that revelation, by the fact that, even upon returning to his homestead, Laurent had taken a piece of Akielos with him.

“Are there other things?” he wonders, knowing that he is not familiar enough with Veretian customs to make out the differences himself.

“Oh, this and that,” Paschal muses. “Eating with his fingers, for example. Terrible bad manners for a son of noble birth. The way he rides, too, I've been told.”

“Akielon horses are trained differently,” Damen knows. Laurent had taken his mare Ios with him and had ridden her accordingly, the way he had be taught to during his year here.

“What are you talking about?” Laurent asks when he finally joins them, after a quick whispered talk with Jokaste. It's as though he could smell the topic of their conversation in the air.

“Just about how radiant you are,” Damen tells him blithely and Laurent glares. Damen does not cower.

He had always thought of Auguste as the sun, warm and bright and something all living things based their existence on. Laurent, in turn, had been the stars. Beautiful but cold and distant in comparison. It had taken Damen a long time to understand that, in the end, every star was a sun of its own and that you only needed to figure out a way how to get close to it until you were allowed to feel its warmth.

Damen was so close he thought he might burn.

When Laurent sits, Damen catches the end of his long braid, pulls it close to kiss the tip of it. Farther down the table, Nikandros makes gagging noises, but Damen does not care.

“Why are you smiling?” Laurent asks, almost suspiciously.

“It's a beautiful night,” Damen says and, at that, Laurent smiles for him as well. There is a mischievous tint to it, though, and - before Damen can ask - Laurent is already getting up again and leaving the table. Damen frowns as he sees him walk over to the musicians playing their merry tunes, sees them talk, until all of them fall silent. In tandem, the rest of the crowd quietens as well, looks around and finds Laurent returning, not to the table, but to the center of the hall.

His footsteps are accompanied by the slow beating of a drum and it takes Damen a moment to recognize the melody to be the beginning of _The Rapure of Teca,_ the very song Laurent had danced to less than a year ago, in this very spot.

This is the first time Damen has heard the song when everyone is not boisterously joining in on the singing and dancing. There is only the drum and a lone singer's voice. Everyone is aware how this is just for their future king, but their eyes are on Laurent nevertheless.

He comes to stand in Damen's line of sight, just a little way off, ample space for dancing around him but close enough so that there is no mistake about how is gaze is firmly placed on the prince.

To the rhythm of the music, he takes a couple of steps forward, like a doe prancing across a clearing at dawn. His hips sway, not as willowy as a woman's, but ever so much more alluring.

Damen watches, his mouth parched. Laurent isn't even as airily dressed as he was back on his nameday when Jokaste had first taught him this dance. Instead, he has loosened the hem of his sleeves, the laces swaying with each movement. The blue veins of his wrists are exposed in an almost indecent fashion.

Wrists, Damen thinks absently, where once it was usually the swell of breasts that drew his eye.

The toes of Laurent's soft shoes touch the white marble, his ankle twists outward, then his knee, his entire leg. The motion, subtle though it may be, is meant to draw the gaze toward his groin. It works.

Then he suddenly spins around, away from his watcher, wrists crossed above his head, his braid whipping through the air. The embodiment of Teca, teasing her voyeur.

Only that it is made worse but how everyone else in the hall becomes privy to their game as well. Under his _chiton_ , Damen slowly hardens with arousal but, when Laurent dances farther away again and it is not just his own hungry gaze that follows, a spark of possessiveness surges through him. Laurent is his husband. They can want him and welcome him, but they will never truly have him.

Taking a deep breath though his nose, Damen rises from his seat. Like this, he towers above everyone else. Just for good measure, he squares his shoulders and puffs up his chest as well. He rounds the table and then he stalks toward Laurent who does not look surprised.

He still gives a little yelp when Damen unceremoniously slings him over his shoulder.

“Set me down,” Laurent complains, attacking him with sharp elbows. “This is- undignified!”

“Would you rather I take you right here in front of everyone?” Damen asks, quiet enough that no one else can hear. The musicians are still playing on. “I know you Veretians have no shame in such matters.”

“That's – ah – only if there are pets involved.”

“Then we best return to our chambers at once,” Damen decides and, without further ado, simply carries Laurent off.

They have barely left the hall when the crowd behind them erupts into loud cheers. Laurent hides his face in his hands.

“They'll know,” he moans, a little miserably.

“What I intend to do to you?” Damen laughs. “I should hope so. And what were you expecting, with that little dance of yours?”

“I hadn't expected it to work quite so... easily,” Laurent amends, a pout in his voice.

“Are you calling me easy?” Damen asks, jostling him slightly. Laurent just holds on.

“You are a dog,” he says. “A brute and a swine. You took my-”

“Maidenhood?”

“Virtue,” Laurent corrects pointedly.

They stall their conversation as they pass a series of guards and servants who send them curious looks. Finally, however, they reach their chambers and Damen sets him down, kicking the door shut behind them.

“You have no virtue,” Damen picks up where they left off, crowding Laurent up against the cool wall. “First, you tricked me,” he reminds him, “Into kissing you.” He presses a kiss to the corner of Laurent's mouth. “And into marrying you.” Another. “And now,” he adds, taking Laurent's hand and placing it against his own manhood, “You seduced me.”

He pulls back slightly so he can look at Laurent, but his eyes have fallen shut and his breath is shallow.

“Do you admit it?” Damen asks and Laurent's tempting mouth curls into a smirk.

“You cannot seduce those who do not wish to be seduced,” he claims.

“True,” Damen agrees. “Yet you should take responsibility for it nevertheless.”

He rolls his hips, urges his hardness against Laurent's palm. In response, the faintest blush taints Laurent's cheeks.

“You have sullied me in mind and body,” he resists, though coyness is ill-suited for someone like him. It is a game, though, and a game can be enjoyed.

So Damen just snorts. “You speak like a temple girl ravished by a lesser god.”

“That comparison is quite apt, I should think.”

“Is it?” Damen wonders. “I rather thought you were a water nymph tricking a king out of his crown.”

“You would give your crown for this? For me?” Laurent asks, sliding his fingers along Damen's length while simultaneously rubbing up against Damen's the meat of thigh. His own cock is already hard as well.

Damen smiles lazily. “I would give my crown, my sword, and my tongue for you.”

“Don't,” Laurent tells him. “I yet have need of your tongue. And of your sword,” he adds, with a meaningful twist of his wrist.

This time, Laurent does not complain when he is lifted into Damen's arms, just lets himself be carried off to the bed and thrown down. Damen descends onto him and, for a while, they wrestle with each other, tumble around on the bed and lose their clothing, till Damen lets him win and Laurent sits astride on top of him, sinking down onto his cock and giving a low little moan.

Hands on his waist, Damen fucks into him with long slow strides, looking to savor the drag and the pull. But that is not what Laurent seems to have in mind.

“Hurry,” he demands, like the prince he is, but Damen can be as stubborn as a mule.

With a jerk of his hips, he makes him topple over. Laurent, surprised, barely keeps himself from sprawling over his chest, bracing himself against the mattress instead. His hair is a veil over his face but, underneath it, he must be scowling.

“You already made a show of using your hips tonight,” Damen notes. “Why don't you continue?”

For once, Laurent obeys. He starts out with circular motions as though to get himself reacquainted with Damen's girth, lifts himself up and slides down again.

There is an urgency to him, though, and he quickly gains speed as he rides Damen, the muscles in his thighs working furiously till his chest is glistening with sweat. Damen presses a hand to his abdomen and Laurent moans quietly at the twofold pressure, moans louder when the angle strikes just right.

Laurent's hair has long since escaped from its braid and Damen twists it around his hand, tilts Laurent's head back at a sharp angle to expose his throat. He can feel his own climax approaching already, which is a bit of an embarrassment as he is the one with more stamina and more experience, so he puts his other hand to Laurent's cock and strokes him with strong fingers.

They reach their climax not simultaneously, but moments apart. It's not a race, of course, even if Laurent seems to be thinking so today, but Damen takes satisfaction in how he lasted that tiny bit longer.

Everything is over rather quickly, little time passed since they even left the hall, and Damen would welcome a moment of rest and then perhaps another, more languid, round.

But that was never meant to be.

“Don't fall asleep just yet,” Laurent warns. “They should be here any moment now. Jokaste warned me at dinner.”

“What?” Damen asks tiredly. “Who?”

In that moment, the door bursts open. Laurent is out of bed and on his feet before the noise has even fully registered to Damen's brain, but then his instincts kick in as well. Laurent has already grabbed two of the swords that are displayed on the wall, tossing one over at Damen. Damen catches it, adjusts his grip, dashes forward, just as Laurent jabs his blade into the first man, pulls it out again, fells the next one with a slash over the thigh before he has even properly crossed the threshold.

The first one dies without a sound, the second cries and doesn't die at all, and the third puts up more of a fight, but then Damen is there as well.

Under normal circumstance, he would consider a fight of two men against one unjust, but they had come expecting it to be three against two who were locked in ardent embrace, and he feels no remorse.

He's the one to kill the third one, if only so Laurent won't have to.

But then Laurent is already crouching down in front of the one he had merely wounded. The man is pressing his hands to the gash in his leg, teeth grit, blood gushing out between his fingers. Without medical attention, he would perish soon enough and he knew it.

“Who hired you?” Laurent demands. The Akielon syllables, the vowels usually rounded from his native tongue, clash together like flint stones.

The man just spits on the floor

“Like I'll tell you, Veretian whore,” he bites out, but Laurent just clicks his tongue and plucks up his discarded tunic from where it had fallen to the floor. From it's sleeve, he draws forth his stiletto knife which he swiftly presses against the man's crotch. You could threaten a man with death and he would not blink, but literal dismemberment loosened lips easily enough.

“Who hired you?” he repeats calmly.

“Kastor,” the mercenary gasps, panicked. “The king's bastard.”

Laurent sighs, as though he had already expected this, but Damen can feel heavy stones settling in the pitch of his stomach. Laurent had carried the suspicion to him weeks ago now, but he had never anticipated the pain that the truth of the betrayal would bring.

His own brother, who had taught him how to ride and hold a sword. Who had grown resentful when Damen had turned out to be a better rider and swordsman than him. Was is truly such a far-fetched thought?

He is vaguely aware of how there are guards streaming into the room, but it isn't until Nikandros joins them that he fully returns to the present.

“I leave you alone for fifteen minutes-,” Nikandros begins when he storms in, but then he sees the mess on the floor and the look in Damen's eyes and loses his breath. “The guards heard a commotion,” he says, somber so suddenly it hurts. “What happened?”

“Arrest Kastor,” Laurent tells him. “For treason and for attempted regicide.”

Nikandros jerks, flounders, just like the guards around him. Their eyes turn upon Damen. Damen who still feels cold and hollow inside.

Finally, though, he manages to lift his head.

“You heard your prince,” he says and even his voice sounds strange and far away. “Arrest the king's bastard.”

Nikandros seems reluctant to leave him but he also knows that for an order such as this it is better to be carried out by one of the _kyroi_ so there are no misunderstandings. Kastor was most likely still at dinner with Theomedes, a convenient alibi, and the king would want an explanation.

Some of the guards remain behind and someone calls for a physician to take care of the wounded, little though he may deserve it, but he would serve as a valuable witness. Finally, however, all strength leaves Damen and he falls to his knees in front of Laurent, burying his face against his belly, just breathing, breathing.

It takes a while and soothing fingers against his scalp until he is able to look up again, look up and look at Laurent. Laurent, his hair a mess, their seed still drying on his skin, naked, with a bloody sword in his hand and dead and dying men at his feet, looks back. There is no triumphant smile on his face, no pity, but a quiet strength that knows no equal.

Damen would have monuments built for him with this image in mind.

 

xxxiii

The king takes the news of Kastor's betrayal harder than even Damen did. Damen had always been a golden son, blessed by the gods, but Theomedes had never truly played favorites. Still, the old man blames himself, and his health, though improving but still fragile, takes a turn for the worse again.

Fortunately and thanks to Paschal's help, a few weeks later see him back on his feet.

Kastor was still imprisoned, awaiting trial, but for now they could breathe easy.

“I may have lost a son of my blood,” Theomedes tells Laurent when he is finally able to sit on the throne again. “But I gained one of love.”

He beckons Laurent forward then and Laurent comes, steps up to him and goes down on one knee. The king presses a kiss to his forehead, a gesture Damen remembers from his boyhood, half-forgotten but cherished.

“Laurent,” Theomedes says. “I thank you for saving my life and that of my heir. You are already a greater king than most and you have not even taken the throne yet.”

“And not for quite a while to come, I should hope, Exalted,” Laurent replies, gracefully rising again.

“No,” Theomedes agrees, getting more comfortable on the cushioned seat. “Not for a while.”

Things are not over, not quite. There is still Laurent's uncle whose betrayal has not been exposed yet, though Auguste seems to be working on it.

“Lady Loyse of Fortraine,” Laurent had told Damen last night. “She will serve as a witness. Her son suffered under my uncle. His deviancy will be his downfall.”

“Nothing can ever be easy with you Veretians,” Damen sighs. His father may be the old man, but he himself feels as though he had aged himself, too quickly, too terribly. But there is a kingdom to rule and, in that at least, Damen is not alone.

“You keep calling me a Veretian,” Laurent points out slyly. “Yet I live in the Akielon palace and eat Akielon food and speak the Akielon tongue. I even have an Akielon husband who fucks me in the Akielon fashion-”

“What on earth is the Akielon-”

“Rough,” Laurent tells him, coming to stand on his tiptoes so his breath just barely brushes Damen's lips. “Like a stallion.”

“I assume you Veretians fuck like fish then,” Damen huffs, though then he gives in, bends forward for a kiss, only to have Laurent duck away once more. Teasing Teca, time and time again.

“We Veretians don't do anything,” Laurent claims, running his fingertips over Damen's collarbone to the hollow at the base of his neck. “We Akielons, however...”

He trails off, leaves the implication hanging in the air.

Laurent would always be Veretian, in looks and in blood. But his heart belonged to Akielos and her prince. Together, they would take her to greatness yet unknown.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, would you believe that I had the outline for this chapter since I started the fic, but that I wrote everything in one day? I am terrible like that. But I am quite happy with how it turned out and I hope it was worth the wait. There was supposed to be more of Jokaste and Auguste in here, but oh well, I always end up focusing more on my mains. Also, I get the feeling that there are still many things that didn't quite add up, but this fic is mostly Pure Indulgence anyway.


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